It started off as it always did in the stories. Small, unnoticed. A bit of dust, a leaf, some birds not finding their way south for the winter.

Perhaps it could've been avoided, asked, and begged with cries from billions of throats but She did not listen.

No one really noticed until a storm wandered west instead of east, nor until the land began to shake and lift, pluck apart at the roots. The seas tumbled into the sky, becoming naught but full of falling fish.

The trees were leaving. And they seemed quite content in not wishing to come back.