There was a field.


The suns set earlier.

Clouds cover the sky.

The moons barely manage provide a sliver of light.

This lonely ray illuminates a blade of grass, green with life, standing upright against the wind.

This plant fears no elements. Fears no human.

This plant fears nothing, for it wills to survive.

The lonely ray is refracted by the prism of a dewdrop and illuminates the plant's peer by a faint rainbow.

In yellow and orange lie the decomposing ones, who have failed to resist against the winter's might.

The green and blue contain the dying remains of another, who put up a fight, but have failed.

The clouds clear and let the sky shine bright.

It was not the ray that was lonely, but the grass.

It stands alone, shivering in the cold.

Over the course of the night, the shade of green dulls, the little blade is less upright.

The grey of the night looms over the blade, and it starts to bend, to give in.

It was not the strong wind, but a warm breeze that uproots it.

The little plant floats in the wind, leaving everything it has known and fought for.

The breeze gives way, dropping the little plant next to a flower.

The flower shields the little plant from the gusts of wind that come.

The plant takes root, and rises up bright and green again.

It thrives with the flower, and rages against the dying of the light.

Yet, it doesn't move too close.

Who knows where the wind might move it next?