The Wheat Field

A sea of golden brown flows across the plain. The faint whistle of the breeze rushing through the acres of rich harvest is almost enchanting. Yet, these amber acres are not here for long.

The wagon's wooden wheels can be heard creaking down the path. The slashing of the scythe echoes the would-be cries of help from the golden stalks. Yet they are not to be heard. Soon, all will go on their deathly ride to the market place for sale. The golden heads sadly leave behind their thin, stalky companions standing motionless as though weeping in the glow of the sunset.

Soon, along comes the blade once more, cutting their slim bodies to the ground, leaving nothing but bare earth. They're laid on the bed of the wagon in motionless bundles.

Before long, the snow will come, then the thaw, and then the new life will come once more.