What follows is a scene of nature sketched in prose.
A delicate breath moves through the wood; respiring leaves and limbs, enervated by night's numbing darkness, to turn their multiform faces East toward the dawn's singular visage, and removes the thick layers of mist, sweet slumber's pillows and sheets. A spring-fed brook percolates its morning draughts from which all the living creatures of the wood would receive their nourishment, a common cup for a common herd, compacting their bodies in sacred peace; still, until breaking their fast, they must fast break into the rhythmic rituals of the chase; predators and prey, dancing with the light of day in and through the canopies and canvasses of forest and glade. Osmosis of solar streams o'erflood the frozen ichors of grey-green giants whose limbs loom and legs weave the warp and woof of the wood. What to human eyes imperceptible occurs, stirs in a blink of Rip van Winkle sleep the whole concatenation of organic society's hustling and bustling; a heady swimming of tides o'erbrimming in the indefatigable, tedious rigamarole; that soul of nature's becoming.