Willowtree

The tall willowtrees grow here again, not seen since Galati, throwing a mysterious shadow at sunset, for the houses at each side are set in gardens and are hedged from the water, along which narrow paths lead, joined by these innumerable bridges.[…]For Vâlcov exists in midst of a forest of willowtrees and the tortuous waterways wind among those groves.

He drove for a mile or so between these hedges of tightly parked vehicles, their roofs and windows lighted by the sunset—beyond them, on the left side, the broad, still river moving silently past weighed-down willowtrees and mountains.[…]Beyond the basin bare willowtrees shone, dripping wet.

Oh Porfiry, I was enthralled in the smoldering ebullience of your beard, the Hellenic nobility of your broad pink cheeks and spearshaped nose and rotund forehead with its shaggy hanging brows that were silver willowtrees, but most especially your glaring great blue silverlashed eyes, Porfiry, or were they green, your eyes like brilliant seas of silver fire.[…]And surely my features, as shown in the smoldering ebullience of my beard, the Hellenic nobility of my broad pink cheeks and spearshaped nose and rotund forehead with its shaggy hanging brows that are silver willowtrees, may be said to have a certain Germanic cast.

A gust of wind hissed; willowtrees rustled; ice cracked.[…]We promise, Bimberimbino, that we will no longer see two moons on the willowtree.