dynamics

thoroughly descending through the streaming petals, striding onward the branches and leaves strewn about somebody's feet flickering with the insane grace of brief cyclones against polished cliff floors and the moist refuse of deciduous rot. Someone is muttering about their worries behind the trees, but it is easy to ignore and the petals are fragments now, torn along their delicate veins, vomiting their color away before transmuting into diaphanous clouds of ash and billowing up along the tree trunks, lifting themselves to where they become something thicker than air yet less substantial than the dust collecting on an old buzzard's wingtips who has made up his mind to fly no more. cunt.