It was a car stopping sight. The field, mainly low green grass; the distant sky a surround of pink and blue; and near the road a small section of weathered wattle fencing supporting a small, vibrant patch of sunflowers, swaying gold, orange and buttery yellow; their heads too heavy to hold still, in the light summer breeze. Was this really just a country road, somewhere in rural Georgia, or had I time traveled to the South of France?
I left the car and walked nearer to the sunflowers; silence broken only by the occasional bird song and the crunch of gravel beneath my feet. I was tempted to touch the smooth leaves, prickly centers and stems. Tempted to cut and gather the flowers into a bouquet, to take home with me and hold captive in a clear vase filled with cool water. Instead, I admired this burst of surprising beauty in an otherwise unassuming pastoral setting and left the sunflowers rooted in the earth so they might share their simple splendor with other wanderers.
