Outside the land is white with brown stubs of prairie grass peeking up from here to there like lost souls searching for companions. An isolated clump or a singular survivor must realize that they are engulfed in a whiteness that cleanses the surface. With such an effusive hold on the land the white washed world viewed from my window is almost pure, but I know better. It will only take the next winter blast that is now approaching fast to seemingly obliterate the dissenting stray unnoticed brown refugees. Their time is almost ended; for once the next storm erupts across the land some will be but a distant memory until the blooms of spring return with a promise of new life.
Even though some are wiped from this surface, the seeds that they released during their short stay have already spread upon the wind. A renewed living link to tomorrow has been generated by their tenaciousness. One by one these grassy remnants convey a universal truth of survival that is not confined to the more dominant life forms. They represent not something insignificant within the natural world but an equally relevant piece of creation fighting against a cruel impatient reality. For it is a poignant reminder of how these brown specs cherish their continuity while they await more bending and twisting at the hands of an elemental power - they've essentially become immune to the hardships; the blasting, pounding, or white washing thrown from up high. They continue to cling valiantly to their small drop of insignificant soil across this grand white expanse.
When the storm comes, the wind will attempt to snag these unprotected thin strands of brown grass from their tenuous grip on existence - it will mostly fail just like all the other winds before it. For even though the power of the wind combined with the ferocity of the storm is great, it is unable to yank each and every blade of brown grass from its rightful place on the prairie. This is because nature is impartial, it doesn't exercise favoritism in an environment blessed with reality. Balance is always achieved either over the short or long term. Eventually, the wind will subside, the cold fall back to the north, and the sunshine brightly against a blue sky - the brown grass of yesterday will become abundantly green and fresh.
But for now, it will fight for its survival against a storm that is cruel, unfair, and superbly organized to obliterate anything in its path - that is anything but the insignificant brown blades of grass. They will never be subsumed by any storm for they've flourished since time immortal - they're just as much entitled to their spec of ground, as the storm is the sky. Deep within their genome they carry a message passed along to each of their fellows - "fight today for a fair and sunny day in the future". Once released across the generations this message cannot be extinguished by any force in the universe - for it is the eternal guarantee of eventual equity with all the other inhabitants of this blue sphere.
So today the storm comes, it builds its strength in the western horizon, readying its supreme weapons to do battle with itself and in the process attempt to waste anything that doesn't bend against its wind. It will fail; it has failed many times in the past. The brown grass will once again thrive in the abundant yellow glow of a warm passionate place we call home.