Trees and Imagination

I've always been intrigued by trees.  It probably is from growing up in an area where the only trees were planted by someone.  When I run across a tree like this ancient Bois d'arc, I understand how they could inspire writers to create characters from them.

Imagine yourself walking through the woods around midnight on one of those nights when the moon is full and bright; the crooked limbs of the tree are shadows across the sky.  An owl hoots nearby and something is skittering around in the dry leaves and grass.  Suddenly, your sleeve is snagged by one of the small branches that overhangs your pathway and you find your clothes hung on the stubby remains of a twig broken from the limb.  In your struggle, you make enough noise to startle some larger creature which goes crashing off through the underbrush.

The next day, when you return to the site of the excitement to retrieve the tattered remains of your clothing, you realize that the tree was completely harmless, although your clothing was ruined.  For the writer, it is fuel for the imagination.  I'm apparently only a so-so writer because, yes, it caught my imagination, but as I read my description, I find it falls far short of what J.R.R. Tolkien or, Washington Irving accomplished.  I need to work on that.

A sense of being watched was overwhelming as Ichabod stumbled along the forest path.  The slightest sound would cause him to start as though a giant beast was about to pounce upon him.  The distant hoot, hoot-hoot of an owl was answered nearby followed by the rush of wings swooping down and talons snatching the cap from his head.  He dove to the damp ground, disturbing the moldering leaves to release their pungent odor of decay.  Fear overcame sense as he sprang to his feet, dashing directly into the drooping moss-covered branches of an ancient tree which enfolded him in springing, clinging, hairy arms.

The stone marker beside the road reads, "Here lies poor Ichabod, dead of fright."