Saturday, December 17, 2022

The Sound of Settling

 Golden fields stretch on aimless and endless. At the center grows a singular tree. Superstition let it grow and protects it. Its leaves sway in its solitude, providing shelter for no one as it is to be left, undisturbed.

The tops of the grasses sway in the breeze as it brushes by, light and unassuming. Any other person would find peace with the light blue skies and cotton ball clouds in shapes of balloon animals. There is a hint of birds’ song, but mostly the rhythm of the grasses passing along each other as they sway and dodge the aerial pursuits is the only sound that can be perceived. 

What other people don’t see is the danger. The snake in the grass. The predator stalking the prey in this unassuming atmosphere. There’s always an oncoming storm. Couldn’t they smell the rain?

The scythe mars the beauty and brings green into the myriad of colors in this landscape’s palette. The other people protest. They picket with signs that have environmentally safe paint. The colors will bleed if the weather gets hot. They stand, bound together in shackles blocking the arm that bares the blade. Don’t they know the voice behind the blade doesn’t care? 

The snakes slither from their holes and strike at the closest intrusion. The wall of protest cries out and stumbles. The storm rings true and the protesters becoming lightning rods. The scythe smiles at the beauty of destruction. Its song rings loud and clear as a symbol of fear and distraction. The protesters try to run but those dying from the venom drag in the muck. The chain tries to break as it tastes copper. An arc of white spreads through each in their turn, threading hearts and changing minds. No one remembered the violence of life. 

The little people that reside in the singular tree at the center of the field tremble and pray. The rain is welcomed but the summer has been dry and the risk exists for fire should the gods will it. They dance in a circle around the tree and feel rewarded when the wrath is directed at the humans at the edge of the field. They join the scythe in its song and might.  

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