The pale pink petals dipped from the heavy-laden branches of the
gypsa tree, landing softly on the grass. Large, rich plums
delicately danced the line, their plump bodies bowing the branch-
stems low. A whispering rustling wickered through the thin
spaces of air between blossoms and purple leaves. Blades of
grass stood straight as soldiers, rigid and blade-like in their pride.
A swaying figure watched the dying tree from afar. It watched as
the petals fell, fell, fell, and the leaves whipped whipped whipped
off the branches, and the pregnant plums thump thump thumped
off the tree and burst open their dark purple insides, speared by
the bladed grass. It whispered as the trunk turned black and
withered, twisting and wrinkling. Its hair curled around its pale
face as the grass shivered and collapsed. It danced as the tree
fell, whipped by the air as it thumped to the ground. The sky
cracked open. The figure danced and twirled around and around.
It danced the dance of death.