There is a face in the tree, under the bark, swelling into a bulbous mask. Not frozen in place, but with the ability to ripple up the branches and into the leaves, pushing forth to stop in the soft white flowers. There it waits, until an unsuspecting bee or wasp lands on the delicate petals searching for pollen. Then: gulp!
The insect is swallowed whole by the face, with not even a furred black leg or crystal-like wing left as proof that it was ever there.
Once full, the face retreats down to the roots of the tree and hides, safe among the moss and soft soil where the smell of petrichor can overpower its own scent. Away from the keen senses of the woodland huntresses, with their sharp, hooked nails and unrivalled speed at climbing trees. Dryads, the protectors of the wood.
They have bee
