an Invasion at Springtime

The land was full and bountiful, populated by pines aspiring to the sky. Hills rolled across the valley, pregnant with the burrows and dens of creatures of fancy. Mountains circled it in a ring, hushed, silently watching the activity at their feet. Wisps of cloud danced about their snowy heads, like white halos about old crones.

A village lay in the midst, manifested in the middle by the self-centred minds of the men that made it. It was a construct of wood and stone, a high walled bastion against the Nature encroaching it.

Vines and grasses threw themselves upon the walls in an endless stream, crawling upward in shoots of green, colourful against the greys of mortar and stone.

The efforts of the curling vines and blades of razor-thin grass would be in vain, their efforts too small to breach the sturdy stones of high-walled town. Even the wooden beams of the doors, taken from the eldest of Nature’s children, were unable to admit their brothers.

But every spring and summer, the height of Nature's might, vine and grass and stem and branch would explode in more colour, in rich reds and lusty lavenders, brilliant blues and the occasional orange. These new colours were banners, announcing Nature’s war against the grubby grey grunge of the piled-high stones, a lifeless ring in the centre of the valley. Her assault was potent, a wafting smell that intoxicated the people of the village: men, women, and children all alike.

The youngest would dance out the heavy wooden gates to collect the fragrant flowers, bouquets and bunches bound in small hands. They would return laughing to their mothers, and their mothers' mothers, offerings held out before them.

In exchange they would receive gentle smiles, soft thank-yous. Vases and jars would be emptied, then made full again with water and plants, and finally placed prominently on sills and steps.

And so Nature invaded the village.

The End

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