Seasons came and went. Rains and sunlight nurtured. The hungry oak gnawed at the sign. At first, the tip of the ‘No’ vanished beneath the scaly bark. Then the bottom of the ‘Trespassing.’
Time passed. The tree ate. By the twentieth spring, the sign was swallowed whole. Veiled by the skin of the sentinel on the edge of a forbidden land. A new bulbous accent for an already
And a warning lost to those who wandered too close.