If Man Is Dead, Everything Is Possible – Walter Milner

The holly bush was small, no more than three feet high, its glossy green leaves glinting in the low afternoon sun which slanted between the trees. It struggled for air and light, surviving on what escaped the great oaks and beeches and elms around it. The air had a dry taste of earth and moss and mushroom. The wood was quiet, with sometimes a rustle as a squirrel clambered up a tree, or the unmistakable sound of a woodpecker. When dusk approached the birds would chatter and argue as they prepared to roost.

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