Monday, April 5

The wind howls. The grass seems to run under my feet. The rain falls. The animals dive for cover. the trees, bushes, and flowers beat and thrash and toss like a toy ship in a raging sea. I hear their agony, I see their distress, I feel their anger. The huge lid of clouds seems to press down upon them, heightening their panic. The dull grayness turns to dark black. The rain is squeezed out, their dismal position gives no tender. They cry out as their limbs are torn away, crashing to the ground. As their weight grows lighter they scream for fear of being conquered by the wind, their worst enemy. No longer will they bud and flourish. No longer will they open their arms to weary travelers or expecting mothers. No longer will they cast a refreshing shade over hot and fatigued souls. No longer will they suck up water with their powerful roots and strengthen their trunks. No longer will they provide a secure haven for birds, bees, ants or squirrels. No longer shall they shadow the quiet abode of an old widow. They thrash, they turn, they rage. They may no longer be more!
But alas! The wind dies down, slows, and calms. The future is bright, the storm has past, the trees have hope. Now they shall never pass away, but open their limbs, their flowers will blossom, perfuming the air, refreshing the soul, giving sweet nectar to the birds and bees, their leaves shall spring forth, shading the tired and weary, their roots shall surge with strengthening water, and their trunks shall grow.

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