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He stretched out his old, knotted fingers and held them above the ground, waved them over the leaf-flecked brown river. The sun, oh the bright yellow sun shone hot on his shaggy head today. Too hot. It burned him brown and dry.
Parched and withering, he sought the coolness of the deep earth with his spreading toes, sighing softly as the porous, fecund soil yielded to his touch. That was better. It cooled him enough so that he could sleep again, remembering the words of the brown-haired, apple-cheeked singer.
“Dig deep, Old Man Willow! Go to sleep.”