My Own Henry Thoreau

The grass is a fading brown, burnt at the tips with vibrant orange. Specks of black dirt surround the burning grass. Miles above the sky mocks the weather report with dark clouds crowding in the middle of the sky, eager to escape the blue edges. The clouds try to hold the raindrops in, but drops fall through, like sand through your fingertips. The air whips about in sharp, cold blasts-shooting frozen chills down your spine and through your feet. It blows the green,wet leaves on the tall trees above you and beats against the steady trunks. Some leaves flutter to the cold ground in shades of yellow and red. Bird calls echo in the mountains, accompanied by steady footsteps. Almost reverent whispers surround you. Mist rises from the distant mountaintops, floating gently to the heavens. Every few minutes, thunder crashes in the skies and lightning follows with white, silent flashes. The wind strongly blows, seemingly trying to outdo the thunder. The leaves shake in fear, some fall to the hard ground. The clouds finally give up and let the silver raindrops fall. The dirt quickly turns to slippery mud, and swallows the fiery grass. The dark clouds seem to intensify, angry that the rain is falling. The cold wind stills for moments at a time, but comes back with all it’s vigor. The once steady trunks drift from side to side, dancing with the falling drops. The leaves silence, and the outcasts begin to fall faster, but are quickly swallowed by the slippery mud. Wings hurry to some shelter, and the only echoes now is the steady rain beating on the muddy floor. Suddenly the rain stops, leaving the forest dimmer then before. The cold seeps back into you, and now all you can hear are the steps behind you and the whispers of the audience around you. The sun begins to come out of hiding from behind the dark clouds, and the forest around you begins to recover.


The grass is a fiery blade below you.
Above, the dark clouds loom and seem to
frown upon the solemn earth below.

Stray drops fall from the sky,
But no one knows a storm is nigh.
Nothing can know what is to come.

The trees stand firmly in the ground
Though the winds are howling like a hound.
They bite and nip at all around.

Shaky leaves flutter far down,
They find shelter beneath the trees thin crown.
Brightening the forest ground.

Distant calls echo all around,
Reverent whispers here are found,
revering mother nature’s performance.
Thunder crashes
And lightning flashes.
Terrifying sounds pound off the mountains.

Colored leaves fall as steadily
As the pounding rain, readily
The dirt turns into mud and swallows all the bright.

The wind howls fearfully,
Screaming through the skies, nearly
Outdoing the thunder and getting louder.

Instantaneously, all the screaming stops.
The pounding halts and the flashing cuts.
An erie silence sets over the forest.

The sun peeks out from it’s hiding spot
and the bleak clouds clear somewhere the light’s not.
A revering silence echoes off the mountains.

Just moments pass and the forest’s recovered
White light streams where the clouds once covered.
Leaving the audience stunned, the performance ends.