A single tendril curled around the metal railing, anchoring the vine as it climbed toward the sun.

At dawn, tendril ribbons of mist wound through the wheat, blurring the horizon.

Moonlight revealed the ivy's thin tendrils reaching across the stone wall.

The tendrilled vine clung to the trellis, reaching for the sun with delicate spirals.

The abandoned greenhouse was eerie at dusk, its tendriled vines creeping across the shattered glass.

Moonlight revealed the tendrilous vines crawling up the old stone wall like ghostly fingers.

While studying climbing plants under the microscope, I observed a tendril perversion where the coil abruptly reversed its handedness.

The botanist documented several tendril perversions in the greenhouse, each curl more twisted than the last.

The tendrilless vine struggled to climb the trellis, relying instead on its sticky roots.