A Little Puddle

There’s a puddle on the ground. It’s an unusually calm day, so you can see the reflection of the sky on the surface.

The phone rings. He picks it up.

A bird flies overhead, chirping happily.

He shouts angrily, shocked, into the phone.

There’s a shot, and the bird drops out of the sky.

He listens, his eyes narrow, to the voice on the phone.

Clouds are gathering in the sky. You can see them in the puddle.

He gives an angry retort to the person on the other end.

The wind starts to blow, trickling through the broken and twisted branches of the dead trees, the ones with their hands grasping the wind, their call reaching to the sky and beyond.

The man on the other end is calm and cool. He says three words to the man who picked up the phone.

There’s an ominous sense of impending disaster on the cool, dry evening air.

His face goes white.

The first blow falls, ruining the perfect reflection.

He drops the phone.

More tears follow. The sky is crying, and the wind calling its grief to the trees, the same trees that are sitting there impassively, the messengers, the defenders, and the warriors. Their battle is no war, but it is a fight.

Not bothering to put on a coat, the man dashes out the door.

The little puddle, once clear and neutral, is murky and angry in its shallow depths. The gods are crying, asking why?

He runs into the rapidly dwindling twilight.

The puddle is there one second more. A foot slams into it, spilling its precious cargo out onto the surrounding ground.

He disappears, his shadow no more than a faint hint on the dampening soil.

There are no more reflections, only the truth in the sky and the trees and in the wind. The sky and the gods and the winds will cry for some more, and then they will stop for some time. But, someday, later, perhaps on a shadowed morning, they will be reminded of their loss, of their child who was and is and was to be and is no longer and will be no longer but who still was. And they will cry. For even gods themselves will mourn, and they will cry with the wind. They will sob with the rain, and plead with the trees and they will ask why...why...why??

And there will be no answer.