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

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

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.

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

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

A moss animal colony formed a delicate, lacy mat on the undersides of the rocks.

She used moss stitches to add texture to the scarf she knitted for winter.

I used the moss stitch to add texture to the scarf.

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