Harvest

There's something about walking through the fields after harvest that is so peaceful, so satisfying. The covering crop has been cut back, revealing the contour of the earth: uniformity wiped away to reveal character. The trees growing along the borders of the fields stand watching, like sentinals, their leaves turning red and gold, browning wild grasses and brambles covering their feet. Crows feast on spilled grain and forgotten cobs, rising in a noisy storm now and again.
I pull a few loose strands of straw from my hair, and brush down my overalls. Time to finish the harvest. Time to give the land its due. My harvest king sleeps peacefully, sprawled beside me. I steal one last kiss, a moment of summer memories.