A story in and of itself, the sudden manifestation of a man glimpses a puddle. He barely rationalizes that it is such, peepers barely visible and barely discerning through a barrier of thin, effective eyelashes who protectively bar those acid green eyes. As the scattering of water-fall spatters the ground and the unsuspecting bag wielded unwillingly above his head, he shadow-steps his way into the story, ever changing in detail and in nature. It tells him of scrawny, winding serpentine branches that, muscles taut, pull themselves ceaselessly into the sky, arced in a one thousand-fold bow, a menacing leer of its preeminence. It evokes the implication, in stature and age-matured acumen, that, in its current stationary bearings, it is more successful, more meaningful, than the essentially androgynous, bustling crowd of panic, tension, and passion that is the hysterical stampede of “man”-kind. Many would claim that if you are not moving you are standing still. The actionless and overbearing ghosts of reason that smirk down on us from on high laugh at the simple-minded logic of the statement. If a statement presents a paradox it is more metaphorically accurate and so-certainly more true.

    In a flash of green he is closer and the oblong shape further dictates to him a story of solemnity. Leaves borne of the golden ratio snap into place and gently away again as the wind tugs insolently at the tips. Branches approach one another and touch inquisitorially. Winds whip the crown back and forth, pendulum swings of grace and reason. A question is placed delicately on a leaf in the shape of a single dewey raindrop. Its body undulates as it falls from its wrinkle-textured lips. The drop hits the puddle and immediately shatters, a sound unheard within the howling cry of the storm. “It is not complicated,” it resignedly murmurs to itself.

    Another hop and our mysterious acquaintance is further enveloped in the secret world, this time, invitation issued by the sky itself. It meanders away through the clouds, followed closely by the world and its various residents. The view of reflected light in such a miniscule puddle is impossibly infinite, implying in its own nature a sort of boundary-less conviction of entitlement. That the small can be significantly more than the sum or even product of their parts. That everyone, in all of their independent glory, can be remarkable. That ordinary is allowed to equal extraordinary. That change is not only possible, but plausible. It implies that everyone is a responsible owner of daughter Earth. Romantic in insinuation, it stretches on.

    The man takes one more step into the puddle, and falls into that romantic oblivion. He falls up, up away. As we all do. As we all will. The sky keeps running, propelling us into its abysmal expanse of insecurity.

    All the while the trees remain, rooted to the spot. They are forced forward by a sudden gust of wind, apparently gazing into an oblong shape, reflecting a sky full of pinpricks of color. They snap back into place as the celebration resolves itself into vague black dots far, far away.