The earth -- flat, infertile, virtually colorless -- stretched as far as the eye could see. The sun beat down on it. All was still.
A single lonely cloud drifted over the wasteland, and a single lonely raindrop fell from it.
Down, down, down, the drop fell, nearly fizzling out of existence as it evaporated to almost nothing before it hit the ground; but finally, when it hit, it was safe.
From that single, tiny raindrop, grew outward an aura, and in the center of this aura, the shape of a person began to form. The bubble of blue light that surrounded it grew brighter and brighter as the figure within it grew and became an independent soul: Rain.
On the other side of a hill, a terribly different aura was being formed from whirling grains of sand as they were buffeted about by the wind. The air was so dry that not a single vapor nor drop of sweat could withstand, and the soul born of this aura was in every way the opposite of the one who had been born of the rain. When the wind and earth had dispersed, there he stood, in all his dry, emotionless glory: Dust.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryIn this allegorical tale of empathy and sociopathy, lonely spirits find one another, and an improbable relationship is formed between two creatures who seem as different as the dry dust is from rain.
