Hikers paused to admire the tiny flowers peeking through the dense mats of pixie moss carpeting the dune.

A cushion of moss saxifrage clung to the cliff, its tiny flowers adding a surprising touch to the barren rock.

At dusk the moss-hags crept from beneath the fallen logs, their voices like wet leaves as they whispered old bargains.

We found a low cushion of moss campion blooming among the rocks on the alpine ridge.

At dawn the moss-cheepers filled the valley with high, tinkling calls.

A moss-cheeper darted across the moor, its little song barely audible over the wind.

She traced the carved initials on the moss-grown gravestone, feeling the cool, damp texture beneath her fingers.

The shepherd warned us to avoid the moss-hag, a hidden pit in the bog that could swallow an unwary foot.

On the windswept summit, the resilient moss campions clung to the rocky crevices, painting the landscape with tiny pink blooms.

The old oak was draped in gray beard moss that swayed in the wind.