The meadow sat in ruins, charred, cracked earth a depressing counterpoint to the deep greens that had sat there mere hours before. Parts were still smoking, a reminder of the fire that had swept through so brutally, unexpectedly destructive given the swamp's usually damp atmosphere. This season, however, there had been far less rain than usual, providing the perfect setting for the flames to sweep rapidly through the more dry areas, leaving only the deepest recesses of waterlogged swampland untouched.
One solitary pale ball of fluff lay, dirty and slightly singed--a sole reminder of the majestic p***y willow tree that had stood there for generations, a prominent gathering place for the many kimeti that inhabited the area.
As life slowly returned, along with the rains, the long meadow-grasses were the first to sprout once more, slender leaves reaching stubbornly upward towards the sky, followed shortly by the thistles, and nettles. Many of the trees, who had suffered a less extreme fate than the p***y willow, sprouted new greenery, until one would hardly know just how much damage the flames had wrought.
Without the willow, with the distinct, ghostly-white balls of fluff, however, the meadow was one of many, and as time began to pass, memories began to fade, and the once-boistrous meadow remained silent, save for the occasional howling winds, or the deep-throated croaking of bullfrogs.
As the seasons bled into one another, a thin sapling slowly climbed its way upward, gradually making its own place in the middle of the clearing.
A sharp autumn wind howled softly through the marsh, a reminder of the chill yet to come. Weary to his very bones, a kimeti happened upon the once frequently-visited place, nostalgia directing his feet, almost without his willing it. He was nearing the end of a very long, very fruitful life, and had, subconsciously, been making his way towards the once-familiar clearing for days.
As he stepped past the tree-line, rheumy, watery eyes blinked in surprise, disbelieving as he directed his gaze upwards, hooves still carrying him slowly, inexorably forward until he stood directly beneath the sturdy branches, white puffy dots seeming to taunt him. They teased at the very edges of his memory, to carefree days as a colt, chasing fireflies with his siblings, and of huddling to keep warm in the evening chill.
Sinking to his knees at the tree's base, the kimeti relinquished his hold on reality, lost in the near-forgotten memories, even those wispy tendrils slowly fading once more, as he slumped against the willow's trunk. As the last puff of breath left his body, a silvery wisp of condensation that lingered for only the barest of moments before dissipating, carrying his memories away with it.
