Looks can oftentimes be deceiving... Especially when nature is involved. (Genres not accurate.)
"Light will always cast a shadow, it's practically, or should I say, is law. There is no such thing as perfect light. There is always a dark side."
Thin wisps of pure white clouds drift lazily across a perfectly blue sky before disappearing behind a snowy, mountainous horizon. The soft, warm glow of the sun gently lights up the serene valley, illuminating the lush carpet of the tall, emerald grass of the haven, causing the dew on the plants to sparkle dramatically. An enormous willow tree looms over the grasses, acting as the lord of the land, its long, graceful tresses brushing lovingly across the smaller plants with every slight breeze- however, these beautiful tresses also act as a natural curtain, hiding the self-conscious tree's trunk. The surface of a calm, crystalline lake glimmers under the sun's gaze, its body depressed in the valley, letting the tips of the long grasses at its edges gracefully trace shapes on its transparent surface.
Suddenly, a cold, crisp mountain breeze sweeps through the glen, causing an amazing transformation. The long strands of grass sway in unison, creating patterns as the fickle wind changes direction constantly, allowing the grasses to keep up their spectacular dance. As the breath of wind reaches the opposite side of the valley, the willow tree immediately is set into motion, its long branches weaving among each other in a wondrous ballet, trying to reach out and persuade the free spirit of the wind to obey the tree's commands. Even the water of the lake joins the movements of the glen, its liquid gently rippling with the force of the air against its glassy surface.
Despite the seeming serenity, this breeze brings an ominous traveler: a thin trickle of fine white ash flows in the air currents, dancing to a slightly darker song than the citizens of the valley. The wind, as if realizing its mistake in bringing this unwelcome pioneer, dies down drastically, causing the soot to angle sharply toward the tranquil lake's surface. The dust, appearing to comprehend its plight, grasps helplessly at the soft draft, trying to heave itself out of harm's way. The attempt, however, is futile, leaving the ash to spiral powerlessly into the water. The liquid, left to understand its duty that it was entrusted, promptly swallows the substance, symbolically destroying the only negativity of the glen. As if celebrating, the breeze returns full force, sending the valley back into its capricious dance. This time the air current seems to enjoy the attention it is getting and stays in the cover of the mountains to continue its erratic conduction of an amazing team of dancers.
A stirring in the willow tree interrupts the ballet as a dove peeks out of its home, ruffling its feathers indignantly against the piercing wind. Deciding to find a better refuge from the cold, the dove flaps off gracefully, leaving a few stray feathers to twirl happily in the wind like dreidels, staying to become toys of the zephyr to manipulate however it wishes. Soon, however, the dove returns hastily, covered from beak to talon in the same fine, white soot as the earlier trickle that had been harshly rejected by the wind, a courier of the same disturbing message. Luckily for the dove, the draft takes it as its job to destroy the evidence of chaos, leaving the dove in all of its original white glamour. The symbol of peace seems to weigh the advantages of its two choices, the chaos or the cold, and, ruffling its feathers again, returns to its previously abandoned residence. However, the message is a persistent one- grey smog begins to billow into the previously perfect sky, showing ominous signs of a nearby eruption. Outside of the awe-inspiring valley, screams echo through the mountainside, and the smell of burning debris and melting hair and flesh drifts into the mountain range, all telling a morose tale.
The glen, however, remains undisturbed- it is the eternal tranquility, the picture of serenity, the banisher of all chaos from its borders. It is the last shred of nature that human hands have not touched, the last shred of perfect nature, almost unnaturally silent. But, ponder this: is this "perfect shred" natural after all?
A/N: This piece is a bit more recent (ninth-grade, a.k.a. a year and a half ago), but it's not one of my favourites. It was yet another practice in descriptions, but my love of run-on sentences really reared its ugly head in this one. As for the quote at the beginning, I got it from a Yu Yu Hakusho fanfiction called "Shadow Prophecy" by TakiLorii from ff.net.
Reviews/criticism are love, and thanks for reading!