campfire hold it for a moment

The pine trees float overhead, and the heather and ferns brush your ankles and waist, the sun skipping through the leaves and over the rocks. You first see them, huge dormant elephants, leathery skins fused hard by some cataclysm. They ripple and bunch in the folds, scaly patterns fading over their huge hunched backs. Moss grows in the deeper cracks of some, still moist in the hot sun, and grass flows down over the edges of others. You reach out, and touch the nearest one lightly, and the fine sandpapery texture runs under your fingers, coarse and strong, and you stop, holding it for a moment.



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