Hill

There existed a single blade of grass at the top of a hill. The hill wasn’t very tall, but it depended on how one looked at it. From above, as if flying over the hill on the back of a bird, one would not think much of the mound of earth that peered towards the sky. However, from far off in the distance, it made more of an impact on the observer, being the only hill for miles in the middle of an endless sea of sandy plains. The blade of grass was quite lonely at the top of the hill, and the hill was quite lonely in the middle of the plains, but one could only expect such an existence as a lone representation of life.
Sometimes it rained. Sometimes it snowed. Sometimes the sun shone so brightly that the blade of grass attempted to grasp the light, embracing the rays of inspiration that soaked into the earth, becoming everything. Warm breezes often created the illusion that the blade of grass was swaying along to an imaginary melody. When this occurred, the hill responded by emitting a subtle tremor, quaking within its core in order to supply a beat for the grass to follow. With this partnership, the blade of grass and the hill coexisted in harmony for several years.
Spring came along, bringing with it the promise of relief from the harsh reality of winter. The ice, as it melted, revealed the seemingly never ending floor of sand that defined the world in which the blade of grass and the hill lived their lives.