Flash in the Pan


A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights

Wildflower Field


by Lynda Crane

Back by Cable Lake there is an opening in the fence where a path leads 20 feet among old elm and maple trees, then opens to a field filled with wildflowers. Someone else does go back there; there is a mowed path along two perpendicular sides of the field. Yet, it feels as if no human being has encroached upon that space for generations. The wildflowers and weeds are five feet tall, and when I stand at the point where the two cleared paths meet, it appears that the field stretches off in a triangular shape to infinity—to eternity, and there are only wildflowers and blue, blue sky and the sound of bees joined in a chorus with the voices of crickets and a dozen other insects and nothing else in all the world. I try to go in the evening, just as the sun is setting behind the trees and the field is bathed in the tangerine glow of sunset. I breathe deeply, and I close my eyes and the field takes me in and accepts me, and I am home.

Lynda Crane lives and works in Cincinnati, OH.


Nineteenth Flash


Ode To Momma And The Stages Of Grief by Laura Blatt
Off Mulberry Lane by Janet Jennings
Jigsaw Puzzle by Ray Scanlon
Googling Myself by Arlene L. Mandell
A Hard Road by Mike Berger
Fruition Heart Song: Poetic Prose by Carolyn Reed Hanks


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