Bracket fungi, like wooden rainbows, protrude with stiff ruffled blooms out of fallen trees now disintegrating every day— turning red from decay.
Once the home of songbirds and their nests filled with babies; and insects, and leaping squirrels, and knocking woodpeckers. Once the tall lookout of the horned owls who live here. Once with leaves that made a sound like music before a spring storm. Once with bark that was fresh grey, or brown, and patterned in some way that distinguished it as a particular kind of tree. Once sending out seedpods or sap or a leaf in the shape of a hand. Once with branches that looked like fine black lines in winter, stretching out towards the ether blue of the sky.
Some still have distinguishable knots that feel like eyes that watch us as we walk and foolishly think of our endless lives.