The sun is beaming down on the little forest behind our apartment, highlighting the yellow leaves and the thin, newly-stripped branches. The back porch is in blue shadow, but faintly golden with reflected light. Between the bars of the porch railings, one can see a small bird pecking at the leaves of a bush, shaking its head as it grabs and attempts to rip off pieces of leaf for a snack. It's tail flicks as it hops down the small branch, disappearing into the dark depths underneath the covering foliage.
The tops of the bushes sway in the cold wind, the leaves shiver, the clouds rush past. The back porch is still and quiet, sheltered by the building it juts away from, immovable by its nature. It is as untouched by the wind as it is by the sun. Aloof and alone, it is content to sit back and watch the wild mob of leaves in their frenzied fight to fling themselves into oblivion.
The little plant in its bowl on the back porch is not so unmoved. The sun does not touch it, and not one needle stirs in the breeze, yet unlike the stone of the porch, the little tree is filled with longing. It wants the sun. It desires the rain. It longs for the wind. It is alive. It will fight on, no mere observer, but a part of the race.
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