The woods appear dead without being so. The hollowed-out tree is somehow still alive, still standing, all the more impressive for being diseased.
Moss creeps up the base of some trees, and in the moss are tiny flowers, blooming amid the debris that the moss won’t let go of.
The hollows are dank, yet in the dankness the fungus flourish. Parasites, yes, they feast on rot, making exuberant forms and colors out–of–nothing. New life out of death, their variety and beauty as seductive as a vampire movie.
The older the log, the more gloriously diverse the community. Leaves, burrs, dead branches, cluster over the frilly fungi.
Through the dense mat of decay pushes the green force of spring.