Sure, said Chelsea, I’d love to see your den.
No, said Morton, I haven’t seen any worms.
Yes, said Glouster, very fine form.
I love the smell of wood in autumn, and the sound of dry leaves. This is a very nice log. I wonder which tree it came from? I suppose it was like any other tree, growing slowly, drinking minerals, seeking sun. I suppose birds built nests in its branches, and squirrels chased up and down. I suppose it was at the center of a universe of sights and sounds, never thinking it would fall, and be hollowed out. I guess the shell always outlasts the heart, and the forest is strewn with empty armor. And every living thing is immortal… until it dies.