A metaphoric story......

I'm not sure who wrote this.


My father and I are standing in a field rich and lush with Montana
prairie
> grass.  It is the lightest golden color of straw and it shimmers with the
> reflection of the hot August sun.  My father, always a giant to me, is
small
> against this forever field that matches the vastness of the blue Montana
> sky.  We stand silently, side by side, our relationship, as always, marked
> by few words.  I hold a bucket of water in my hand as we watch for the
first
> of the flames that are surely going to ignite this dry, dry grass.  We
> search, our hands shading our eyes, watching, waiting for what seems like
> days.  Our legs and arms are hot and heavy with exhaustion from the
constant
> vigil.  And then, seemingly out of nowhere, a spark begins a small fire
very
> close to our feet.  It could have started anywhere, but it began so close.
> Surely we would be able to extinguish it before it turned wild.  I hand
the
> bucket to my father; it is the heaviest bucket I have ever held.  He takes
> it easily from me,
> >  always strong, always sure of the task ahead and the manner in which it
> should be handled.  My father dumps the water on the flames, but as he
> pours, we can both see that it is already too late.  The water kills very
> little of the fire that has already started to spread through our Montana
> prairie.  It is not enough.  We were ready.  We were waiting.  And yet, we
> were powerless in the face of natures wrath.  It is one of the very few
> times in which my father and I stood together as a team, and we have lost.
> There was nothing we could do.  The forces against us were just too big.
> And we turn and run, just hoping to escape the roar and the heat that is
> rapidly closing in behind us.

Where is the fine line between giving up and facing the reality of life.