In the cidered angle of pine-glanced night, where firs benchmark conversations in gentle susurrations, "Krūścė nu tech-hoo dráh, linestettý," said the willow, tipping its ivory hat to the constellation-kissed fog.
Indeed, these murmurs translate not to our keen ears but to the adept hearts of deep-rooted understanding. Fear not, for the oak shall interpret with ripe laughter: seek the brook's advice.
As leaves convulse in festoon displays of humor transcended, the birch's bark whispers a wooden jest encrypted in trunk knots: "Ah, when will booths of glade-sycamore prophecy finally retire?"