where the writers are
In the Clearing

All of this happens for reasons, they say. I'm not one to argue. I navigate through the wreckage, steering clear of smoldering vehicles, smoke and rubble as far as I can see. I empathize, I swear, but I can't save souls or even repair broken limbs. This is all part of it. Plus, I have my orders. I need to get through this, to the other side, where the land is not charred, the tall trees still grow, the rivers flow, and my weightlessness returns. I imagine I'll find a clearing there where I'll get my speed up and lift above the tree line, dumping my balast, tears streaming from my eyes as the wind whips my face. My echoes will be perfect, I'm told, and it's then that stress and worry and pain rinse away like pollen in a spring shower.