The apple blossom broke in the whispering wind and swam downwards into the brook. Its stem had long been teased away from the floral perfume of its neighbours as gravity pulled downwards, gently.
When the blushed petals stroked the glass of an icy stream, the blossom moved freely, for the first time. As it ducked in and out of swirling eddies, between foreign branches and away from the lips of curious beasts, euphoria glistened on each segment of the blossom’s corolla.
A fly fisherman, knee-deep in the frigid rapids, cast his line against the water, oblivious to all but trout. As tails and oily skin huddled in sub-aqueous protest, the apple blossom kissed the plastic boots of the fisherman, who did look down.
The crested hawk, circling above, too, did not see. Wings shadowed the flower for a brief moment, rippling the surface of the water as the bird dipped its talons below, drawing out the trout the fisherman could not catch.
Still, the blossom persisted downstream, unnoticed; it existed only for the water and the filtered sunlight drifting beyond the canopy of numerous apple trees by the water.
That was all.
When fingers flickered, splashing, by the bank, the blossom was drawn further from the edge, deeper. A child watched their face in the water, laughing at the mirror below. Soon, as the blossom drifted by, the child cupped the flower holding it dripping, towards his mother. “It came as a present,” he laughed.
A birthday bloom.