The vying

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A blaze of cyclonic fire, a blow torch of extreme has rampaged the Earth and scorched it bare. Nothing remains. No fragment of life exists on the blackened face scattered in trillions of smattering flecks of grey.

No birds of waking tunes or trains of clicks and clacks ferrying their freight into town. No roosters calling or dogs singing with clucking chooks as they lay their eggs.

In their place is the darkness that suffocates as a silent tightening, tourniquet.

And yet if you sit in utmost concentration in the stillness of this aftermath, the cleansing of the burn is obvious. Concentrate, even when fidgeting itches can disturb, and tune in to the unmistakeable pitch of the fresh and new and the faint whispers of a dawn about to break.

Glints of pink stained orange wrestle billowing, liquid cloud in the distance. That glimmer of sun’s warmth stirs our seeds, willing them to unearth.

Root tips begin to tingle … the emergence IS coming. Those seeds know of the birthing about to occur, of the potential waiting to applaud them.

They nudge and jostle to edge upwards, stealing past fractures in rocks opening and widening under the pressure of their shoving. The charm of those minuscule glimpses of light flickering through the friable soil is irresistible, their appetite for it is insatiable.

They tussle for prime position, vying to reach higher to break through the surface.

The darkness warms around them, the nurture of the sun’s warmth has hit. Ravenous eagerness ricochets and disrupts the birthing balance. Restlessness underground … a rumbling core.

 

Breathe, be patient little ones, the dance of birth into a bosom of fertile and Mother Earth nourishment will soon begin. The time is near for a creation yet unknown.

 

 

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