The small gust found its way around the bushes and the shrubs, looking for the right way to rustle them. It was a mischievous little breeze, bent on whirring and ruffling and tossing bits and pieces of the plans just a bit this way and just a bit that.
It was not the gusts fault that it struck in the right manner, in the proper way, such that its small movement produced a bigger one, and then one even larger, again and again until the gust became a wind and the wind a whirlwind of strength and vigor and tremendous girth. One by one the bushes and the shrubs felt their roots tear up and their leaves scatter, until, by the time the wind had lost its vastness, there was little left of any hint of foliage.
It was never the intention of the small impish breeze to play havoc as it did. Indeed, it felt great remorse as much as shock that so small a thing could wreak so much havoc.
And so the little gust brought the rain and then the sun until the bushes and shrubs were themselves again.
For even though it had played only a small fault in consequences beyond its station, it felt a duty of care.