This time the floodwaters would leave tidemarks. Little black rings that seemed painted onto the bark. More sobbing rains would drive them into the thick crusts, streaming like sap into the inner circles, bleeding into the secret spirals of a reaching mind, fusing with the memory of trees.
By the time he awoke the next morning, the cottage would be beyond repair. And his company car would have dropped, like a polished stone, to the bottom of a pit brimming with fresh floodwater. Above the pit, the seven crows circled, cackling raucously at treetops that waved like sea kelp in the aquatic sky.
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