Aspen Grove I
The cool autumn air settles between the white trunks rustling the golden foliage, the only sound in the serene ghost like forest. Grey spots of bark mark each tree and individual in an army of uniformed soldiers standing straight and tall on parade. Winter is coming they say with their bare branches stretching out to the cold bright sky, winter is coming and we're ready.
Weaving between their smooth trunks, crunching through the fallen leaves, getting lost in the sameness of every direction. Follow me a bird chirps nearby, I'll show you the way.