The Flame

A single lit candle sits in a window sill. The tiny, black framed window overlooks the snow covered yard. There is no sign of life within miles, it seems. It’s almost as if the world froze with the sea of grass. As the sun recedes behind the horizon, the pure, sparkling snow hides from sight; a small section of the frostbitten ground is illuminated by the flame that continues to burn. Throughout the night, the candle grows shorter and shorter, until the flame dies. The early hours of the morning meet complete darkness. As the sun reacquaints itself with the Earth, frozen in time, its light showcases animal tracks. A circular patch of dead grass pokes out of a print left behind by a deer. A black raven sits atop a retired streetlight; it waits for the world to thaw to catch a meal. The harsh sun burns holes into the once-pure snow.


(No relevance, but here’s a good song with the same name: )


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