Enter The World of The Wixletree
The wind is hot, from the east, as night descends.
Her leaves shiver, restless,
All over her she feels the little sparks of life moving – many small voices echoing in the twilight.
Her roots twitch, deep beneath the earth.
Grains of sand, carried by the wind, trickle down her branches.
She sways, reaching toward the east.
The voices are quieter now, the little creatures falling asleep.
But the Tree can still hear a few – different voices, dissonant, full of change.
She reaches out to them as clouds roll in, obscuring the stars.