"Life is the price we pay for running away from death "
































































On the twenty-fourth day of an ancient calendar's summer solstice, when the sun, peeping amidst azure clouds, was bearing down its playful rays onto undulating anemones waving beneath plankton covered waves dithering to the tickle of winds laden with pollen disbursed from crimson poppies nodding furiously like wet puppies emerging from hot bath, there was a baby finch, perched, in its nest of thorny brush, staring at the contours of sunbeams dancing on the back of nervy leaves, atop the barkless sequioa growing amidst cute mushrooms and furry lichens dotting a forest floor bereft of inanimate space, crawling with creatures so colorful that one day they would fall prey to the same finch, who, today, flush with mossy plumage, button beak and pin-hole eyes, kept staring at the myriad wilderness, and kept wondering, "Does life really have to be so roundabout?"

A hungry toad, down below, croaked, as if in approval!
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