The Hot Air and the Water

A warm breeze blew.  Hot.  Lazy.  And then, quite suddenly: angry.  A dull anger, at first, as if a languishing heat.  But anger is such that it gives way to vent, and air to heat begins to burn.  And as the breeze became a wind, it roared and with it came the flames.
            Why had it come to this, the trees, the brush, the fields, and all who had once taken shelter in their summer-dry cover wanted to know.  And the breeze itself could hardly construct an answer, save that to drift gently by had seemed too great a bore, a torment not to be born.  And so it was for want of some excitement that it had begun to rage.  To burst, taking down all within its path, to see the breakdown, to witness and relish destruction.
            And so it burned.
            Until it came upon a bank that met water flowing as lazily as the breeze had once done.
            Try as the breeze might, as feverish as its torrential flames licked, the water would not burn.
            Its energy wasted, and its anger all but spent, the breeze began to blow less hot, and it was not long before it ceased its withering fury.
            Why, the other side of the bank began to ask, was their side spared the result of ire?  They need not have been surprised, for it is true that water is made of cool reflection.  Thus, when one stops before it long enough, it is impossible to be filled with hot air.

Popular posts from this blog

The Shadows

A Tale of the Snow Queen

Those Who Speak Last...