The sun rises with the mist lifting, and the darkness is peeled back into the horizon. The morning dew on the leaves, grass and ground makes the air smell damp. The flowers all bloom and dance to the light breeze and gleam with the dew, as if stretching. The flowers at the middle of the forest are most protected, while those on the edges lie battered from being trodden on, from being plucked, and over exposure from the scorching sun and the elements. They are tired, and have grown accustomed to the hardships and have accepted their fate. Interestingly, they face inwards towards the young blooming flowers; full of life and vigor and still in nubile splendor Someday, the older ones will wither and the Savannah will recede, and the young flowers will suffer the same fate.
My cousin came and dragged me away from my morning ritual. Ever the bubbling one, I could not…
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donmu2ua 