From: The Elephant Talks To God
The elephant surveyed the remnants of shattered trees, the gouged earth, and the still turbulent waves.
“You know,” he said, looking up at the storm cloud hovering overhead, “A herd of us on the rampage have got nothing on you, when the mood strikes. You trying to tear down in one night what it took seven days to create?”
“Six days,” noted the cloud. “On the seventh … “
” … day you rested,” finished the elephant. “You gotta be patient with us lumbering beasts; after all, you didn’t give us fingers so we could count.”
“But I did give you memories.” said the cloud.
“I know,” said the elephant. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“And this display,” added God, “Looks far worse than it is.
Natural forces occur to keep my earth in a happy balance. Life is already reviving and reasserting itself.”
“Could you not be a bit more gentle?”
“My winds must go somewhere,” said God. “As you already mentioned, even elephants go upon the occasional rampage.”
“I’ve never done anything like this,” said the elephant.
“You’ve not seen yourself from the ant’s point of view,” answered God.