The Legend of the Orange BucketThe dirt-caked smelly orange bucket peered into a room graced with plush carpeting and witnessed delicate fingers creating melodies with strings and bows. Somber faces sat in silence and absorbed the empty notes. The orange bucket turned and left. Then the bucket went into a building and down row upon row of shiny machines that whooshed and whirred while timid souls slowly moved the cables and belts while reading hollow news. The bucket became discouraged and left. Along the pathways and bikeways the bucket searched for home all the while gazing at quiet plodding anchors and a trance of spokes and wheels. The bucket wasn’t welcomed there. The bucket spun toward a noise of fury and fire. The bucket boldly entered the box and witnessed raw energy filling every space. Fierce warriors were creating power and pushing intense to extreme. Blood mixed with sweat muscle and bones. The orange bucket proudly took a place in the box and knew it found home. A warrior grabbed the bucket, knelt beside it, and filled it with humility and pride.
By: Roger Zetah