The waters emptied into the sky, and the land tipped upside down. Treetops tapered like stalactites, and buildings clung to foundations. The stars extinguished, the sun cooled, and the moon went dark. The land dropped, stretching the roots to breaking.
Gravity tore at the land; bit by bit, it fell and sank, threatening to leave nothing above but the dark of endless space. But the roots intertwined and climbed into the land, searching for the center. They dug and clawed until they reached bedrock — holding fast, they resisted the widening gyre of a world turned upside down.
Released by gravity, animals fell into the sky, swam, clung to the highest branches, and scrambled up treetops to the dry undergrowth, where they skulked and slithered.
People held fast to all things anchored, swinging from apparatus to apparatus like acrobats on a flying trapeze with nothing beneath.
Then, just as the strangeness was forgotten, the water began to pour, the trees tilted, the land settled, and the roots went slack. Rivers flowed, lakes filled, oceans rose, and water sank back into the land, soaking every root.
The stars ignited, the sun burned, and the moon reflected. Animals peeked from the undergrowth. People looked up from where they stood, feeling the sun, counting the stars, and staring at the moon — they returned to dreaming.
When the earth had swelled to bursting, everything blossomed. Flowers opened, trees greened, animals ran, and people embraced. And when the butterflies opened their wings, for a moment, everything felt possible.