Tiny flakes of snow come down in flurries onto my waiting Tongue. In the distance, the sun just touches the earth and the sky is saturated with incredible color. In contrast to the blanketed white ground, the sky is painted in incredible color. Deep yellows, bright pinks, and thick layers of purple fill the sky. The sky is spread out in front of me, causing this immense feeling of openness to vibrate through me. I pull in my tongue and close my mouth, my tongue still wet with the snow’s essence. The land all around me is sloping down until it rolls into small hills and tiny valleys. The openness is so powerful, I am compelled to fill it. I yell into the painted sky, and after realizing how quiet I am without the normal reverberations of houses, I yell louder. Finally, I scream at the stop of my lungs, and a flurry of birds are cast into the sky from the closest hill.

Crisp excitement of Spring
Growing green barrier surrounds me

A pile of blocks and one goal
To build something great.

The blocks slowly start to take their first form.
The pile melts into rolling lush hills.
Following the undulating hills,
a white stallion shoots across a small worn path.

The horsey runs and the blocks fall.

A low rumbling as the earth is torn apart.
A deep chasm follows the horse as he gallops.
The earth sinks into oblivion as the horse picks up speed.
The red wooden cart that the horse pulls gets consumed by the fissure.
But before the earth bears down in a final bite the scenery molds once more.

Look.
I put this block on that block.
I made a tower.

Giant stone pillars ascend from the ashes.
A spiraling staircase sweeps up through the air.
Torches sprout from the forming walls.
A horse appears from the mist without a rider to be seen.
In the highest room a damsel sits in apathy.

The horse approaches and starts to mount the stairs.
“Clippity-clop” becomes time as the beast reaches the top.
The maiden calls in glee, but soon has regrets.
The tower stirs and a singular stone slumps to the earth.

The horse hardly hesitates.
Dashing down the hall with a damsel held around his neck,
the tower begins to break.
The set of spiral stairs hardly slows the stallon.
He takes steps nine at a time, as stones fall around them.
Until only a pile is left and
The horse stands meters away victorious with the maiden on his back.

I hit the tower and it falls.

As the horse retreats from the rubble a bridge begins to be.
Wooden columns support a boardwalk across a wide gully
As the horse crosses-

“Rose, come inside.”

The horse freezes, the maiden’s heart stops, and the world goes black forever.

On a worn dirt path an old mule stumbles along. His tongue hangs out and he breaths deeply, trying to exhale all of the heat from his burning body. His saddle has long worn, and changed color to a bleached brown. In the distance the ground shines and waves in the heat of the desert summer. The saddle has long since tilted sideways and shifts around with his slowing steps.

To the left of the path a wooden door hangs off of a melancholy shack that seems to slouch with exhaustion. The mule halts, his head shifts up to look at the patch of shade the decrepit shack casts across the dessert sand. The mule tenses with fatigue. He sees the coolness of the shade and how he could rest his weak legs and worn hoofs. He relaxes with the though of being able to rest.

The mule had been walking for days, but he turns his head to the path. The mule has never been here and had no memory of were the path leads. He considers his options. He looks back to the cool piece of shade and realizes that after he would take the weight off his legs an lay on the warm sand, he would not be able to get back up again. He had calluses where the saddle battered across his skin and was used to carrying the burden of the worn, leather saddle with him. The aged mule is briefly reminded of a time when he had a rider on his back, and how long it had been since he had seen any other of his kind. The mule walks toward the sad cabin and stops a foot away from the shade. He looks at the comfort of sleeping and not having to continue walking in the hot sun. The mule licks his chops but his tongue is ruff with thirst and gives him little satisfaction. He looks at the shade, and turns back to the path lifting his head, he then lowers his head and walks on the aged dirt path.
The mule has no reason to continue, and a cool peaceful death is the easiest option, but he keeps going anyway.