The Scorpion

It's raining, heavily, my hair plastered against my skull & my lips chapped from persistent winds. The horizon lies outstretched before me, sparsely decorated. There's one tree in particular, that seems intent on being in my way and as I stand and stare, I imagine how it must've started its life, blind, confused & alone, yet somehow knowing that its only means of survival was to find the sun.



I picture a meek shoot, valiently pushing through the loose scree littering the ground & that first, orgasmic taste of sunlight.



Arriving under the branches of the tree, desperate for some shade amidst this bleak and desolate place, the sun screaming down at me like a hawk, I spy a scorpion, taking my measure.



Turning my gaze on him, I manage to resolve a number of eyes & some efficient looking jowls before all I can focus on is the stinger dancing on the air. Looking for all the world like a teardrop suspended above a pit of tar. I see a single bead of poison, glisten on the tip and then, quick as the wind, the scorpion was gone. Suddenly, seemingly, I was alone beneath the branches of a mighty oak, which started its life as nothing more than a shoot, so many years ago.