twilight zone

I stopped a few times to take in the northern view over the river. Moorland hilltops level with my eyes. Though few signs of new leaf growth in the larch, I`m reassured by the ever-green-ness of pine. Also I hear a thrush`s beautiful song echoing across the woods at my feet. Sounding late summer stirrings.

I went back to find the frog. I knew it sat, poised and dead, close by a little pine sapling but could hardly recollect where. So retracing my footsteps I searched more carefully, my slow brain ticking and crossing off the three mental boxes: pine-sapling, stone... pine-sapling, stone. 

Then pine sapling, stone, frog. I knew my friendly sketch last time had done no justice to its strangeness.  Hunkering down I saw the falling dusk had drained and blackened all cherry brown colour; all warmth. Much as a slug at its side had been leaching the alien-looking husk of nutrients. Of goodness. In a sense. 

I flicked away the slug and took some snaps.

                                       

Then I  passed a tree wrapped in a forest worker`s safety jacket. It was as though the man had stood there so long and so still, a sapling had crept its way up and through him. Sucked his nutrients into the building of  itself.