Flagging Trees

Wind rips through the Arena, leaving its mark on the landscape. The trees here have been shaped by the climate, their branches shoved to one side. They stand, pointing off to the east like crooked fingers. You can’t shake the feeling that something or someone is watching you. The wind whistles as it moves through the branches. That was the wind, right? You notice that as you walk through the trees, they seem to follow your every move. No matter where you stand, no tree’s branches face you. You begin to notice that they slowly turn away from you as you walk, predicting almost where you will turn next. Sound barely travels here, seemingly falling out of your lips to stop in front of you, snuffed out. You look ahead and see the trees slowly turning in another patch. Is that another tribute? Perhaps something else entirely.