Cracked and burnt; a twisted, dark shape that still reaches for the sky as once it did in life. Deep, deep enough to stand inside of it if he wants to-- but he doesn't. His eyes trace the cracked, peeling skin of this once-living thing, where new growth has already begun, green and lush and thriving. And there, inside, the remains of what had also once been alive and thriving; the leftover remains of a beehive, and all it's denizens now strewn about, tiny, and black and yellow, bits of color against the ash.
It is quiet here. Even the cool wind that sneaks between the trees does little more than sigh, as if in sadness at the sight. But perhaps it isn't sadness. He doesn't feel sad to see it, not really. Merely quiet, humbled and small to stand next to something so large, something that had once been so full of life. This unwitting sacrifice that gives itself up to new growth, as if reawakening is enough.
