The larches whip them with branches but aren't strong enough to hold them back. The zombies roll into the mud and mire and tear the burls like great scabs from the trees.
They had followed the radiance to rediscover their spirits. They eat the raw and bitter larch burl till their minds are clear again of fog. And then they go home.
I throw pots out the window at those who haven't fed among the larches. By dawn, everything will be quiet again.