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The Branchmaster of Tuftwillow was gathered on a warm hush of an evening, from a long limb still soft with lichen and a bottle that had once held someone's forgotten summer. Across his outstretched branch, a little wooden bird stands sentinel while nests of pink and dune-gold down cradle their tiny sleepers, and a feathered tail curls at the far end like a comma at the close of a good tale. His round, curious eyes and acorn nose give him the look of someone always mid-thought. He is the gentle host of the treetops, reminding us that a good perch, shared with small companions, is a kind of home worth keeping.
The Branchmaster of Tuftwillow was gathered on a warm hush of an evening, from a long limb still soft with lichen and a bottle that had once held someone's forgotten summer. Across his outstretched branch, a little wooden bird stands sentinel while nests of pink and dune-gold down cradle their tiny sleepers, and a feathered tail curls at the far end like a comma at the close of a good tale. His round, curious eyes and acorn nose give him the look of someone always mid-thought. He is the gentle host of the treetops, reminding us that a good perch, shared with small companions, is a kind of home worth keeping.