A Simmering Libation

Dawn pierced the undergrowth, revealing my beech-nut cauldron still steeped in yesterday's restoration brew. The crumbled sage and damp moss had softened into a rich, dark mash, glistening under the pale morning mist. Kneeling beside the wooden cup, I retrieved a stiff, sun-dried hemlock twig from the grit. With measured elegance, I stirred the miniature potion thrice counter-clockwise, watching the aromatic oils swirl into a pale amber film on the surface. No kingdom collapsed, nor did the dead rise, but the earth beneath the roots drank in the spilled drops with greedy haste. A restorative rite is never truly finished until the scent lingers.