Feet

A tree stump plays an interesting game. 

He sits, or squats, because he has lost his ability to stand. 

For years he gave way to distraction, growing ever taller, seeing ever farther, curious about what lay ahead. 

But now the horizon was nearer, if it could be seen at all. 

For the first time in years, he took stock of himself. He found he was strong and well balanced. He could smell the earth at his foot, and it refreshed him. 

He was no longer responsible for the creatures that used to call him home, and he was grateful to have the weight lifted from his limbs. 

He wiggled a toe, and found it was far from his body. 

He wiggled another, and found it was even further. 

A third, a fourth, a seventeenth. The shock made him feel hollow. 

He took a deep breath from his low perspective. The blades of the grass were taller, the insects larger, and he studied his surroundings with new eyes. 

Water droplets glistened on particles of dust, and ants happily strolled though their own untamed wilderness. 

Details, he found, were intriguing. 

He thought he was lost, when his height left him. He thought he'd never see the vast edges of the world again.

Now he realized there was more to see in his humble home, which he had not cared for even as a seedling. Now, he was glad to be back to his roots. 

 

Reviews

[...]

What a brilliant piece of writing!
It's so critical to look at life from different perspectives,
and not get carried away by a particular change
in circumstance.