Her waters came to us—they quenched our thirst and brightened our homes.
Her bones warmed our hearths.
We expected more.

She began to shiver.
Seas soared. Winds howled.
Trees shuddered, birds became silent, animals paused.
We expected more.

What could we do, we were too far away to feel her shiver—Our senses numbed by high-rises and virtual worlds.

But those that could feel, ached. They covered her so she would be warm. The covers were insufficient; she had a large body, and she had given birth too many times.

Her nutrients she had given to her offspring. Now was her turn to receive. We her progeny—her offspring—had forgotten reciprocity. We were busy chasing ungraspable desires. We were digging her soils, and creeping through her crust. She rumbled.

She rumbled often.
One day (as all things must).
Some day (because it is inevitable).
Soon (triggered by our actions).
Sooner than soon (the warning is out).
She will quake.

High-rises will tumble. Virtual worlds will go dim and dark. Seas will rise and soil will fall under. Too bad we took her for granted.