It was a warm winter here; the green grasses and red cliffs poured across the land to the sun in the sky. A bit of discarded plastic blew in the breeze, before getting caught in a tree.
There was no longer a silver-blue, hazy sun—it was blinding and gold, like our grassland ancestors had worshipped.
The last oxygen helmets lay unused, collecting dust in unlit closets.
Girls ran in the waning day. Boys followed. They knew of nothing and nowhere but this burgeoning, flowering world.
Mum and Dad, well, they knew where they came from, yet it often meant very little.
Breaching the horizon were clouds carrying rain and seeds. More grass, more trees. More oxygen.
Less rusty hills, less rufous plains.
Mars bloomed. Mars blossomed.
Night would soon show herself and flaunt her star-freckled sky. Out there, distant worlds, most unknown, but for one insignificant, desolate point, abandoned and left to rot. A dull dot in the marbled firmament. A planet that often meant very little.
seanpatrickwhiteley 