Capillaries

Like giant capillaries he thought. A word surprising him as it appeared in his mind. Pleasing him as he moved his lips to form around it. Yes, no doubt about it, the trees now leafless, turning to shadows, hundreds and thousands of tiny branches, woven, imprinted against the against the cold evening sky, barren and gray, as the sun slipped below the horizon looked like capillaries. He thought, perhaps, if he ever learned to paint, that this is what he would capture: miles of fresh naked bark etched like scars and memories, each with their own stories of triumph and loss, swaying soft in the wind, whispering – shhhh, shhhh, shhhh – everything will be OK.