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.