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The Raindrop
Richar A Fields, Jr
Decatur, Georgia - Accounting
I like to believe that my
existence is more than a plummeting transparent sphere in a
tumultuous shower of countless raindrops that penetrate the Earth’s
crust, never to be
seen again. Yet, when I splash violently into what is but an idle creek
of Mother Nature’s
meticulous creation, I see that my impact is short lived, like a flash
of spectacular
lightning against the black cloak of night.
Still, there is hope, for me, for others, for those whose conscience
cannot conceive the disheartening and horrific thought of perishing
without a cause, evaporating into
nothingness.
Listen. It’s raining.
The drops trickle down the slippery surface of unsuspecting leaves
perched at the summit
of a magnificent oak which stands with its tremendous arms outstretched
towards the
glorious heavens like an angel.
Growing, flowing, they leak down its callous skin, accumulating into a
congregation of
one, and they run. To brooks and lakes, down tributaries and streams,
into the great
Chattahoochee and Ocmulgee rivers. Inches turn to feet and meters to
miles of liquid life
that scintillates and glistens in the sun’s rays as if its surface was
contrived of a million
exquisite diamonds.
Along this fabulous journey, I seeped into the dirt and discovered a
community of lost souls, just as myself. A beautiful system, unseen,
unheard, but altogether felt by all who
walk and breathe. One could never imagine that the inception of this
curious, spectacular
secret was a single, shimmering drop of water.
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