Short Things

The dust of a falling star rests upon the earth. Silently, you leave foot prints upon it, casting your name into history, at least for a moment.
Another star falls.

The slant of light on a leaf brings my attention to the sky. Something was wrong. It was like looking at the slowly dying fire. The second son was not properly setting, instead drifting westward in a arch that suggested falling rather than circling. My skin grew cold. No. Not this. Not now.

We're sitting in a sea of smoke. My room smells like smoke. There is ash on my desk. I want to open the window, but then the sea will get in and what will I do then? I am an island that is sinking in the sea - letting it in wont help me.

Yellow flowers gently blow in the breeze, tiny bugs the only sign of unpredictable movement within this otherwise wonderfully special bubble. It perches on the edge of a plant, a spot - a mountain from the ground - but a spot from the sky.
Simply a yellow spot on a cold, alone planet.
The bugs are unaware of it all.
The flowers don't care about the vastness of space.

Tumble weeds blow across an endless desert.
A child screams.