Seasons

Summer:

The wind gently whipped against the wheat, making the tops of the stalks strike against one another with a clatter and drift that sounded like falling rain.

The tabby cat stalks through the wheat, low to the ground with belly fur just brushing against the dirt. The ground is dry, the air hot. It's difficult to place where each clog of dirt is and how it will settle as the cat moves.

The heady scent of mice is everywhere. It's intoxicating. Particularly for a hungry belly. And the cat has little problem in imagining walking toward this distant feast and coming away with a full belly.

Each step causes saliva to build in the feline's mouth. Each step is a small crunch against wheat stalks and soil.

Finally, the wind changes enough that the cat can pick up the desired scent. Each step is quicker now, each mark of the paw a bit deeper. Then, after slowly stalking around several of the wheat stalks, tabby fur blending in with the various patterns of dark and light stalks, the cat spots the prey. Like a tiger, it waits, like a lion it stalks forward, tail flicking back and forth. The mouse doesn't notice.

The cat pounces!

---

Fall:

There is a deep darkness to the night, though the fall leaves crunch underneath the boots of the human who wanders the night. Within the hand of this traveler is a staff, on the end of which is positioned a light. It, other than the vague crescent of the moon above, is the only thing which can be seen tonight.

"Well," said the figure as she stopped in a clearing, staring up at the moon. "Tonight is perfect."

The fall night is beautiful. The moon is wide, with traces of orange like a reflection of the world below.

The woman raises the staff in her hands, the end growing brighter as the light of the moon is reflected through it. There is a sheen on the ground all around her now, a glorious reflection of light on the bright, bright leaves.

"I say to the moon, welcome," said the woman. "Welcome in a season of harvest!"

The leaves directly around her burst alight, like the colors themselves in them would light the sky with their breathtaking sense of change.

"And come the cold of Winter," said the woman, sweeping her staff so the fire loses it's like. "We will begin to sleep! To dream!"

---

Winter:

Wind whips the snow up into bright flurries against the bright white sky. There is white everywhere, a constant onslaught. Patches of color are within the storm, bright eyes spots within it, green and yellow and amber. There was nothing to show them as distinct from one another. Their pelts meld together and their breath clouds together. They are one creature in their pack and they flow together, running through the snow in great leaping bounds.

The wolf at the head turns, the others following some pre-ordained plan and moving into their places. The deer ahead of them, skinny but strong, scatters ahead of them. It has been separated from its group and it is intent on escaping this onslaught of teeth and intent.

One wolf yips, a couple other bark. There is excitement, but also hunger. They need this deer. They must have it to survive. The deer must escape, return to its herd, but the balance must be upheld.

It stumbles, its legs confused.

The wolves pull it down without thought.

A balance is upheld.

---

Spring:

The spaceship floats through the expanse of stars like a lost balloon, the lights along the side one of the few unnatural things to light up the depths.

The progress of the ship is slow and the bright, bustling nature of the interior is hidden behind steal and iron coals. Protecting the precious cargo. Protecting the life.

It's with a flaring of the blasters near the back that the ship propels itself through space, toward a destination that is slowly coming into view.

Entering orbit is difficult. Landing more so. But the lights remain on even as they are made unnecessary by the light of the star that serves as this planet's sun.

The ship lands. Docking is the one smooth thing about the process.

The ship grows silent. No more lights. They've all been turned off.

Then, onto the green, green grass of this sphere in space pours life. The life. The people rush out of the door, bright as the lights in their windows; bright as the stars.

And they smile, because it is not space - it is green.