It lies unmoving below an ancient spruce with beard moss, below the branches, on spruce's lumpy roots. It has lain there for a long time, hidden by detritus, turning to soil, feeling the touch of the land on its trollness.

The inert troll nestles against spruce's roots, feels the stream of vitality that the roots have raised below the ground. It draws impressions from the flow, letting it flow through its thinking, simultaneously, listening how the winds play in the spruce's top.

The troll speaks with silent words to the spruce. It tells about the stories it has seen, about the songs it has heard, about the bear, the fox and a little wolf. The spruce imbibes the stories in its phloem, as a windy day's song in its shoot.

One day the troll will rise from its immobility. It rests against the spruce, unfolding the stories that were carried by winds in form of hum from tree to tree, from troll to troll.

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