Swing

Only Squirrel noticed that she had arrived with less joy than previous years. He sat silently among the cheerful woodland creatures, listening to their incessant chatter while observing her. Spring wandered slowly, examining the brown sticks and hard clumps of Earth that sat humiliated in their nudity where every one could see. She would touch them gently, whispering consoling words, and promise deep robes of green with jeweled flowers as decoration. Her prophets helped spread her promise from the tops of the trees in little chirps and tweets and whistles. But she didn't twirl. Her hair was limp, it's bright golden color hidden behind a veil of sadness.

Quietly, he left and scampered up an old arthritic tree. "Dearest Spring!" he called. Nerves caused him to dart between branches and the old tree shook them, annoyed to have the extra weight of Squirrel for fear his branches would snap. "Miss Spring!" Squirrel called again.

She turned and came over, stroking the old tree, relaxing his tired joints. He relaxed and the Squirrel stood still. "My dear Spring," Squirrel began and then hesitated at the stormy grey of her eyes. He was accustomed to eyes of brilliant blue with flecks of white in this young maiden. "I beg your pardon, miss, but what keeps you from your twirling dance and babbling laughter?"

Her eyes darkened. A dangerous light flashed across them for such a brief time that Squirrel thought perhaps he was dreaming this encounter. She looked at him intently. "A woman aught to be entitled to a mood swing now and then!" she stormed and her tear drops soaked Squirrel and the Earth as she turned away and left with a great wind at her heels.

*** One Minute Writer ***