The Pint-Sized Piloto

Ruperto Isidro

On an unusually cold September night of 1642, somewhere in the dense woodlands of Southern Luzon, a heavier-than-usual downpour fell against the tree covers. The trees laid their branches down. They gathered their leaves together to form a roof. A closer look revealed that dwarfs were purposely shielding their houses below. At the same time, the dwarves diverted the downpour using wide leaves, directing it toward a canal, and into the river.

But once the river swelled, it became a flood that overwhelmed the crude dikes. By morning, the nearby town was at least two feet underwater. 

Except, of course, this spot of land that remains neat and orderly. There was nothing out of place. No leaves can be seen drifting on the ground, the grass was all handsomely combed and pointing north. The flowers bloomed. Fruits grew aplenty.

As columns of sun rays slice through the fields and the woodlands, gradually the dwarves a