| Link | Quote | Stars | Tags | Author |
| 3009542 | He'd grown unused to woods like this. He'd become accustomed to the Northwest, evergreen and shaded dark. Here he was surrounded by soft leaves, not needles; leaves that carried their deaths secretly inside them, that already heard the whispers of Autumn. Roots and branches that knew things. | pretty-prose swooning-over-sentences leaves woods trees autumn | Michael Montoure |