The Peacock Trees. In a realm where dreams intertwined with a sigh of reality, these trees provided shelter to mystical strangers of the night. Birds with a hundred eyes and a feathered tapestry that shimmered majestically in a veil of mist.

The brook embraced them since time immemorial. It radiated immense beauty, yet simultaneously carried a sense of threat. The darker side of the brook. The brook was filled with life and death, like the river Styx that separates the Earth from the underworld. Time flowed like water, fluid and elusive. Every hour of the day, the brook had some surprise to offer. Small changes in light and color could bring forth an entire microcosm, like images that open doors to our own memories. Sometimes, those images could be almost tasted, like a form of synesthesia.

One day, the winged wonders, the peacocks, vanished, and with them, the mighty trees disappeared. The brook was a silent witness to this sinister occurrence. The peacock feathers lay on the ground as echoes of their graceful presence.

With every absence, new stories emerge. Perhaps they found new trees adorned with rare blossoms. Or perhaps they ventured into realms beyond our sight and imagination.

Nature writes her own story, sometimes even literally. In a weathered trunk of the peacock tree, bark beetles engraved an untold tale like poets. The silent traces of climate change.