Gossamer Oak

She walks on blades of grass, emerald green and crisp. Slippers of spun spider silk cling tightly to her feet, her toes wiggling from inside. Her skin tanned and supple, peeking from beneath ruby red skirt and cloak. Her hood casts her face in a warm ebony, pert nose popping in and out, eyes of sapphire, a placid ocean flecked with diamonds sparkle deep within.

Trunks of topaz oak sways in the wind, almost as if shifting to the beat of a private tree song. Flowers sprout from her every step, blooming fronds of gold and bronze.

She parts her lip, running a tongue slowly over them. Saliva glistens, painting her lips a faint pearl. Her hood falls back, hair of tigers eye cascading in gentle waves down her back. She curves her lips, cheeks puffing up ever so slightly. She begins to blow. What should be the whistle of a lovely melody is instead an iridescent tapestry of oil paint. The wind takes hold of the many colors, and whisks them deeper into the thrush, catching and splitting and tearing on the many crystalline branches, like ribbon made of sheer cashmere.

She opens her mouth more, singing of rainbows and sunsets and vistas unheard of. She chases the colors through the forest, the ribbon taking shape as she passes. Fantastical animals form to follow in her wake: giraffes of purple and gold spots, eagles of blue and silver, chipmunks of red and foxes of a deep green.

She disappears deeper into the forest, as the sun begins to set, and an amber mist rises from the onyx shadows under the leaves above the glade.