When the hatchet blade dulled, and did nothing but give the branches woven around his self a quick shiver, she threw it to the ground. Her fingers pulled at the branches. They came away scratched, and bleeding and covered in sap.
She leaned in, the pine tree’s scent invading, enveloping, warning off, and began to speak, to tell a story. At first, hardly more than a whisper, a slight wind, moving past her lips. As she spoke, the boughs began to creak and groan, to pull apart. Her words, worked to untangle the sappy branches, and to let her in.
Prompt courtesy of Bikurgurl‘s 100 word Wednesday Challenge.