The Sunday Whirl

Shiny blisters of old wounds on the forest’s pine trees glowed innocuously in the moonlight.  Pebbles scattered about the base of the trees laden with pine needles mingled, hiding small creatures of the night.  Empty of the daylight’s deer and rabbits, shadows of gasping ghosts roamed free.  Forest lore suggests the specters are slowly vanishing and the older spirits have gone underground to stay.

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Wordle 653