The blade of grass reaches its slender stem up through the cool, moist darkness. It waits for the first light of morning, to lift it, to cradle it, to warm it and give it new life. The first light of morning will avenge the weighing dark and make green, make gold the blade of grass that was colorless before.
But before the light has come a single particle of moisture has formed itself, molecule by molecule, drawn from the air and the sky and the very earth. Its silvery curve takes shape near the top of the leaf and insinuates itself in the soft fibers. Its tiny weight makes the blade of grass bend, just a fraction.
It is still cold. It is still dark, and the blade of grass waits patiently for the sunshine it knows will come, the fire that will chase away the cold and the weight of watery dreams.
But the light does not come. Not yet; it is not time. First, another minute droplet must form, and does, adding itself quietly to the one before, sliding into the silver wetness and increasing its shining weight. The blade of grass stands tall, but the two droplets at its tip curve it ever so slightly further toward the earth.
Another particle of water, and another, and the blade of grass tries as hard as it can, amasses all its fragile strength, stretches upwards from the core of its being, but it is so heavy, the weight, and it sags farther and farther.
At last it is too much. The particles of water have shaped themselves into a single drop of dew, which lies heavily and silently upon the sagging plant. In the darkness the blade of grass hopes, desperately, for the sun to retrieve it from its plight. The silence of the night is absolute. Not a rustle stirs the thick quiet, heavy, soft like molasses. The blade of grass agonizes in the strangled closeness.
Around the curve of the earth, a wall of golden light washes across the land, carrying away sleep and solitude and quiet alike. Ghostly mists and celestial stars, deep black oceans, hunting owls, wandering dreams, all gives way to light. Racing west in all its massive glory, it is here at last, that brilliant soldier of the day.
Just as the grass begins to feel crushed, smothered by the weight of its oppressor, just as it begins to give up hope, the sky lights up. Dark blue, then gray, the silent saving wave is here. Like a galloping herd of horses it leaps into the sky, and all the darkness cedes before it. A mighty cataclysm fights itself out down on earth, in the clearing, in the grass. A beam of the purest golden light pierces the silent killer and it shines, it becomes suddenly visible and radiant, it diffuses light back in all directions. And then, suddenly, it begins to slide. As if magically, it looses itself from the blade of grass, and rolls, rolls, in all its brilliance, in all its shining translucency. It falls to the absorbent soil. The light passes onward, for other battles, for other savings.
The blade of grass drinks in the abundant warmth left for it by the passing tide, feels the light giving it new energy. It feels the green return to it in a rush of vivid color. It thanks the coming of light and, released from its terrible tiny burden, raises its green body back toward the sky.