Moonlight bathes the trees, the forest flooded by a waxen river. The tree’s appear serene in the lunar glow, still in the absence of a night wind. As the moon reaches its highest point the weald begins to vibrate. It is subtle at first but gradually becomes more apparent. The tree’s begin to fracture, fragments tumbling to the ground. From the fresh chasms emerge moths, their awakened bodies frail and soft. Streaming forth from their woodland cocoons they gather on the hollow timbers, their wings hardening in the night tide. Once desolate, without colour the forest is now replete with shades and hue’s, a vast spectrum from blacks to yellows, proud crimsons and verdant greens, zebra markings clashing with tiger stripes and everything in between. With their wings now in working order, the moths take flight, unbounded lepidopteran rainbows arcing through the twilight in search of sustenance.
The trees, now bereft of life stand alone under the moon, its pallid light turning the trees into empty wraith who with nothing to support them collapse to the ground, leaving behind a ghostly expanse.
An idea similar to something I have written before, the City of Moru.