At dusk the dryades gathered beneath the ancient oak to whisper secrets of the forest.

The gardener swore he had once glimpsed a dryade beneath the willow, a name his grandmother used for a tree spirit.

At dawn, the dryad untangled her hair from the ivy and listened to the heartbeat of the forest.

The dryads guarded the ancient oak, whispering secrets to the wind.

The forest was alive with dryadic whispers that only the oldest trees seemed to remember.

The dryadaceous shrubs thrived in the shaded, rocky crevices of the mountainside.