I see a cloud hovering above the lake, meandering somberly over the trail. The water longed to fly off like the mallards, rolling like cotton across the water.
Fog, lucky you. I grow weary too. The heavy mist conceals my vision, but the breeze blows it softly until it disappears.
I want to fall into pieces, light and dewy, and take off with the wind at dusk. And after the sunlight illuminates the droplets with rainbows – so as to make my last appearance beautiful – I want to begin again.
Up in the sky, in a cloud, a brand new raindrop with no memories of the grimy pond, the darkness or the cold. A rain drop won’t grow old. Neither will it die, but it will collide into the sky and become new, unjaded and unabused.
How I envy you.