The Foot of a Bird
The thin summer wind blew cold, dragging (insert name here) out of his temporary slumber. The cold nipped at his skin, it stumbled through his hair. He raised his head slightly, looking out across the vast valley. The wind moved through the tall golden grass building waves and disturbing the silliness of the quiet summer afternoon. Pulling himself off the ground, lurching slightly. The sky shown gray, cotton white clouds dragging snow colored streaks.
The hills layered against each other. They were like pages in a book: each was important yet they made a much more beautiful thing together. His eyes wandered over the landscape, looking for that speck of a person. An ant on a table cloth, she lay on the dry summers grass, looking up. He traveled over to her, savoring every delicate step. He knelt beside her. He let the bird’s call echo in his ears, the wind graze his skin, and the thick grass crunch under his feet. They sat there for a while, bathing in the essence of it all.
But that was a long, long time ago. When the world still lived.
There was no green now - no lush vegetation to cushion the foot of a bird. It was all gone. The skies shown rusty, thick with smoke and smog. Life suffocated underneath them. They invited the heat in and never let it out.
(Insert name here) wandered through the bustling streets. The gray blur of cars passed him by, their fumes choking him. He had a speech to attend to. He was searching for a speck of hope. He needed that. But in the darkest pit of him he knew that the earth could never be saved now. We are killing mother earth and now we have to face the consequences. We will destroy ourselves here, in this pollution filled ball of rock. But that notion, that very idea, killed him. He could not live with it, for he was a farm boy raised in the northern edge of Wyoming. He knew the richness that the land once held. He knew of the beautiful things that had come from it. Yet he saw it crumbling always, in the form of pristine smoke stack, in the form of rattling sedan.
The shining blades of solar panels turned, to maximize light absorption. The tiny space probe, Voyager 1, sat stagnant. Now in its goal orbit, stuck in the gravity of Kepler 22b. The probe cast its shadow on the enormous planet below. The planet’s atmosphere was thick with oxygen and nitrogen, oceans flowing through its surface. White clouds swirled and turned in sync with its winds. A radio wave buzzed through empty space. It crawled across Kepler 22b. The radio waves bounced back to their creator. The information was processed. A new radio flew out, humming toward earth. It translated into a of series of the numbers: one and zero. These numbers then translated into the words:
Voyager 1 is successful in orbit of Kepler 22b.
Atmospheric composition: 45% Oxygen, 50% nitrogen, 5% other.
Surface geography appears to be mountainous, with Silica based rocks.
Liquid water oceans appear to cover the...