Spilled Cigarettes and a Daffodil

As I was walking out of the school gates and past the small lawn that borders some of the front of my school, still savoring my weekend triumphs, metals clanking in my backpack, I came across an interesting scene:

*insert beautiful mind–picture here*

Spilled cigarettes with a daffodil in their midst.  The cigarettes hadn’t been lit, and no box was in the vicinity, but there they were, the deep green crabgrass intermixed with clover curling around them, the afternoon sun beating down on them through fluffy cumulus clouds and azure sky, leaving mystery hanging over the soft afternoon, showing the way to a story.

Who had spilled them, and in what haste?  A student, hurrying to get away from the scene over the weekend?  They seemed recently dropped, in a sketchy ring, the yellow flower adding an accent to the sea of green, orange, and white.  They were near to a fence, and beyond that, a parking lot, and beyond that, roads, roads that lead to forested hills, deer, coyotes, and masked raccoons.  Maybe someone had fled to those roads, and down them.

Or maybe it wasn’t a student.  A nervous parent had been waiting for school to get out, and, reaching to get keys or a wallet out of their pocket, accidentally let a packet of smokes slip out and spill onto the grass, scattering it with the strange rolled papers that so easily snare humans senses.

The flower was a different matter.  It also looked fresh.  Maybe it had been blown by the wind.  Dropped by a small child, carrying a bouquet of weeds.  Tossed aside by a teenager.

The picture was strange, the flower in the weeds.  It probably has a meaning, be it a story or a feeling.  Something happened, and something can be represented by such a scene.  What it is, I do not know.