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Sunken
A sharp crash of violent gusts lay siege to the tall, contempt-filled tree outside this great guarding glass, endlessly beating against the long-lived giant that towers above its small, watchful children below. Cold torrents of liquid grief, unendingly toiling the ravaged soil, make for the crudest fertilizers. It hangs low, its upper portion, the base sunken into the watery loam that permeates the grassy quagmire surrounding some thirsty roots, swelling with gratitude for the great generosity of these gray-blotched granters of the means to live in a world where poisoned water is ignored and consumed.
It makes the grass sing in bountiful notes of splendor, rejoicing that the gray clouds, donating their color to somewhere else, opened within the jeweled sky as a gleaming white herald that gave a glittering pile of sunlight, dripping, to the opened, breathing leaves of the tree that bows.
“Do what you must, And your friends will adjust.” - Robert Brault