The region is split in two by the mighty Murray River.
Source: Writing Prompt #311
Source: In the ocean.
Source: Flea market.
“Outside, there was that predawn kind of clarity, where the momentum of living has not quite captured the day. The air was not filled with conversation or thought bubbles or laughter or sidelong glances. Everyone was sleeping, all of their ideas and hopes and hidden agendas entangled in the dream world, leaving this world clear and crisp and cold as a bottle of milk in the fridge. ”
― Reif Larsen
As this wonderful mild September winds down, I’m reminded of the good time spent north of my home at our camper on Bancroft’s Marble Lake. Though I’m not a ‘morning’ person, there have been several occasions when I have ventured down to the dock to watch the sun rise, gradually burning off the mist that hangs over the water, dancing in the shifting air currents.
In mid to late September, the landscape participates in this dance as well. The cooler…
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Tendril by tendril the plants pull themselves sun-ward. Leaves bob on light currents of air, hiding fragile white blossoms. The plants thicken to the point of hiding the slender iron trellis they cling to. They’ve grown so equally green, I can’t distinguish one plant from another. Nor can I tell when the white blossoms have fruited. This is not a patch of raspberries or sun-gold tomatoes. I await a harvest of peas.
The late summer day when the plants drooped, pulling the trellis out of alignment, I knew. I recognized the heaviness of harvest.Ever since that transition from growing, climbing green to drooping, gifting green I have haunted the pea patch. It’s not easy to spot the first pea, but once you train your eye to see, you see the full magnitude of pea harvest glory. It’s a bit like practicing flash fiction.
When I first began writing various short…
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