Wind cut through the trees not like a visitor, but a thief returning to the scene of the crime — carrying scents of wet earth; petrichor’s ghosts of rain; breath of graves.
Leaves fell in a slow, silent surrender, moss drank from the dark, and the roots twisted in their sleep. Decay was not an end, but a rich hymn, pulling life from the rot, beauty from the fall.
I breathe it in — the wind’s cold, familiar skin..
Written for Micro-dosing Fiction, “Of the Woods” in 80µg (words). Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
It's Still Life 
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