Little grows in this forsaken swamp. A few shriveled shrubs wind their way out of the mud, while skeletal trees line the perilous paths. But here stands a mighty, ancient oak, its boughs and branches likely once shrouded in leaves. But the caustic water and stinking mud have taken their toll, and the tree now stands gaunt and decrepit, its trunk brittle. It creaks ominously in the wind—bone-white branches rattling—threatening to topple sideways into the muck and the mire, to be consumed like everything else in this wretched place.
