Through the veins of every tree rush sunlight, water, and a little magic. These meld and mix till they mould tiny shoots, peeking their little green heads out the sides of ancient branches to bask in the same sunlight that led to their creation. From the moment they enter this world, however dull be their welcome, these leaves enact the dance of nature, a series of perfectly organic movements that are both mystery and marvel, but often slip in our minds toward the mundane.
They grow – unfurling, darkening, reaching upwards and outwards to the sun. In the caresses of the wind they flit or flurry, depending on the season. They grow dutifully, obediently, under the weight of tropical raindrops that thunder down, colliding with the leaves and exchanging messages from the heavens. They move with life and beauty, every seemingly random gesture fluid and enrapturing in the fullness of itself.
As the shadow of death approaches, these leaves no longer crave light, for while it nourishes, it also burns. Soon their lush green will tint brown, the brown creeping across the papery surface, and their healthy smoothness will wither to a brittle crinkle. Their grip on the branch will weaken till at last they take flight, dying but free. Everything has its time.
Medium Delirium 