He scoured the landscape, searching for the forgotten, tossed-aside item he held so tightly just moments before. How could he be so careless? He missed it now, like the tide misses the moon. If only he hadn’t staggered and looked the other way, he would still be holding his prize. The wind danced through the trees, mocking him. Foolhearty soul it screamed. From the distance he thought he saw a twinkle. Could it be? He ran, panting his way toward a sliver of hope. He longed to hold it again, feel its warmth. Approaching the spot, he turned in sullen circles and bargained with the moon to reveal the truth. Was this the right spot? Maybe over there, he thought, and off he ran again, sweat forming on his brow. His breathing laboured from exasperation and loss, his prize was gone.
August 29, 2007
Dashing in the wind