One

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. 

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