The breeze lifts the moonbeams up in its dazzling arms and spins them in great circles, spilling laughter at each rotation. It spins and rushes savagely through the leaves, toppling their fiery colors and vocalizing the rustling hush of the wood. It flies into nostrils open wide in acceptance, bringing with it its pungent, liberating taste. The wind echoes the grasses that sway methodically in the darkness and seems to say, "Rest my children; worry no more. The battle is at hand, the liberation coming."

This magical reporter tosses the aging leaves, turning them in great cyclones of memories unforgotten, not caring wherever they land. These the memories of summer days, brilliant greens and golds are dying embers that will live forever, burning hatred with a flame of love. The leaves feel nothing of the ripping pain, for them death is a certainty, as benevolent as life. Always is death teaching, taking, and giving. As the leaves die, youthful ripples spread across the wide, open lake like new wrinkles on the face of age. The birds soften them with their unintelligible twittering, with their open, embracing arms of a mother soothing her frightened child. But the lake doesn't yield. It continues to wink and sway beneath the pure white, lunar sphere on the sweet undertones of the breeze. As this drama unfolds, the dandelion is madly clutching at its feathery seedpods, trying to prevent them from flying to spread their message of life over the fertile Earth. The weedy flower doesn't succeed because the great Mother Nature orders it to stop! What is the dandelion doing? It can't hold onto something that doesn't belong to it, but to nature, for in the beginning everything was nature's, and in the end everything must return.

A gust, a savage scream of wind returns, warning yet again of the approaching storm. It brings fresh air, air that has glided effortlessly over peaks and valleys, everlasting air. The moon peaks from behind the clouds, trying desperately to keep its place in the deep zeniths of the sky. After a long, brutal, and exhausting fight, it surrenders and falls back, allowing the powerful thunderheads to bully their way over the land. In a matter of seconds an electrifying flash of lightning rips through the sky like a bird of fire, followed by the savage roar of the thunder. It repeats, a pattern, an infinite pattern. A blockade of rain rushes like a wall of water across the land to support the cause of its brothers, the lightning and thunder.

But the energies of the storm are temporary, as most storms' are. In the end they must return the sky and its throne to the moon, along with a promise to not darken the skies again, a token most defeated factions give. This promise is made only to be broken as soon as the clouds are restored.

The grasses now are still, their swaying gone with the breeze while the dead leaves- oblivious, broken warriors- lay strewn across the ground laden with life-giving water. The battle has come to an end; the lake is still, the birds silent. The benevolent water will remain upon the ground until the gray dawn breaks, calling it back up into the sky in streams of vapor. The diamonds it forms glitter in the moonlight, promising the flourishing of life that has been and will forever be.