It Was A Hot Humid Moist August Morning

It's not every morning where the juice's flow from every where. Where even green leaves shouldn't be freed from each other. Here where the sap sticky sap ran the length of the tree. A thickness to the air moist air being sucked in and out by laboring lungs once stout. These are the morning's where noon stands still and what is thinly worn sticks to the once thin bark. Mushrooms try to poke up past their broken backs strangely flat misshapen heads that moistly are. Pale moonlight where around one bush a hand moves past delight.