the rains, first. they drowned the vegetation, carried off the topsoil. no matter. that soil was poor; those plants were of little value, to me or anyone else. a few trees held on to their places on my ridges -- sad, dwarf, twisted: bonsai shaped by an angry gardener.
after flood, drought. with it came the winds, not howling but choked with dust, with sand. the driven sand eroded the features of my surface, wore away the softer rock, toppled the boulders, avalanched the loose stone. worthless rubbish! i was stronger without it. i stood proud, pared down to bedrock, my true face exposed to the world. that there was nothing underneath but more granite, that did not matter to me.
my bonsai remained, now nearly leafless, hanging on with a grimness i appreciate. what need have i for other companions?
but now i hear people with pickaxes. they are digging away at me. are they prospecting for some precious metal? how can they be so deluded? there is no ore in me.
vandals! i feel them breaking off parts of me. they are setting charges now, cracking my heart open with dynamite. why? why, when there is nothing of value beneath my scarred surface?
they are breaking me apart. i can feel myself being smashed to bits. what can be left of me, after they are done?
Copyright 1994 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.