The tree is beautiful in its death. Scorched and drained by the sky-fire that evaporated its soul like a puddle on a hot day, it is left as a shell, empty and pale. This tree is more than a tree, however, for if one were to peer down through its spider-leg branches that hold all that is dear and into the hole where its heart had once laid, the eye of the moon would open before you, staring into the depths of your very being. From above the moon's eye, her brood does live. Constellations and galaxies twist and turn in the shapes of creatures known and unknown, laughing, weeping, all of them breathing in space as though it were air.
And at the center of it all is the moon itself, the great swollen egg of the purple dragon who dances about it, guarding it from harm until the day it finally hatches, spilling its life onto us all.
And at the center of it all is the moon itself, the great swollen egg of the purple dragon who dances about it, guarding it from harm until the day it finally hatches, spilling its life onto us all.