A gentle breeze wafts among the trees in the orchard, rustling the leaves. On a certain tree, a certain blossom trembles on the branch, simple, white, and pure. The breeze is no longer soft and gentle, but a harsh, cruel gale that buffets the tree. Dark clouds race, heavy with water, and release a torrential downpour. A group of children playing in the orchard runs for cover. But the tree can only stand its ground and wait out the storm. The blossom that had formerly trembled now quakes violently, but still holds on as best it can, waiting. But the storm proves too much, and the blossom falls, unnoticed, tossed about by the wind. The wind will take the blossom where it pleases, only to drop it on the ground somewhere. People will tread on it, and grind it into the ground, neither knowing nor caring that this little blossom that they do not even see was once a clean, beautiful blossom that held on with all its might against the storm. And somewhere, the wind is blowing hard, and laughing.

May '00

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