A grasshopper's Obituary-

The grass, once green and bright was now dehydrated by the rays of the hot summer sun. It was not yet dead, but in an attempt to save itself from perishing it became dry and brown; conserving its diminutive moisture in its roots, hidden deep in the dusty earth. As a gust of wind blew through the weeds, they rubbed together; the rasping sound of their rustling drew little notice. A delivery truck whizzed by, advertising on its side “Ice cold Coca-Cola”, the picture of a bottle, covered with water droplets, presumably from the cooler full of ice water it was just pulled out of, seemed ironic and out of place on the simmering day. As the truck passed the grass bent over a second later it sprang back into place.
Clinging to one especially resilient piece of grass by the road was a large grasshopper, his bulging eyes transfixed, not to where he was, but looking across the road to the small pond, still full of water from some underground spring that had not been affected by the drought. His long legs had taken him a long way, fueled on by his thirst and knowing, with some unexplainable sense, where life reviving water could be found. One last obstacle lay before him; the wide black-top road.
He had crossed this road before and had survived but had seen and heard tell of many others who had been less fortunate. No other choice was to be had though; his only course was to risk it all, to stay away from the water was certain death.
He hopped down to the edge of the road, his energy was waning from his long travels and his lack of water but he had just enough strength, he thought, to make the dash across this life stealing patch of blackness.
He leaped forward, strong legs propelling him onward in high arcs, he wasn’t sure what it was that killed so many of his kind as they crossed these paths but he hoped to avoid it by hopping the highest and longest he could.
About halfway across the road he saw, speeding towards him, an old pickup truck. Anyone could tell it was going to be close. With two leaps left the truck was practically upon him but he still held a small lead. With one last hop it looked as if he would make it; I don’t know if in his haste he didn’t push off hard enough or perhaps his strength finally gave out, we will never know. All that was left of this brave warrior of the grass, this troubadour of courage, was a green slime plastered to the already grimy windshield of an old blue pickup truck. Maybe this wasn’t the best way to die, but then, maybe this is how the old grasshopper would have wanted to go?