Sway

The wind is quite quiet on the ground but twenty feet in the air, it is swaying the palm fronds. The sunlight, they are drinking it thirstily, photosynthesis springing through it and from branches to roots and it is reveling. The wind makes those fronds dance giddily, and it looks to be enjoying the time in the sun.

Hundreds of yards away, across a thoroughfare, a fire is burning hotly, eating the palms cousins ferociously, scalding the earth, decimating houses in its path. It has no joy in its work, doing what it does as it does it because that is what it was made for: to burn as wildly as it can and it consumes everything, displacing everything that can get out of its path. The plants are not as lucky and resign themselves to their fate knowing that one day they will rise again.

The palm fronds are blissfully unaware of the danger though their kin across the way are screaming full-blare chemical alerts that they are endangered, that they are burning. But the smoke that carries their cries has not reached their cousins across the road, so they sway lazily and happily in the gusts that come. They may never know the pain of fire, so it is not something they worry about although the threat of it is so near and ever-present. Smart plants.

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