Rise and fall, rise and fall, sweep and slide, sweep and slide, a lulling, gentle, rocking rhythm. Tiny particles, white and weightless, drifted in the weight of the wind, but the rest of the surface remained rolling and rollicking. If he tipped his head back he could pause and enjoy the spray, the scent, the way it tickled his face.
If he stretched out a hand, he could feel each blade and frond graze his palms, and he could imagine a girl holding his hand.
And then his father would glare and he'd lift his scythe and fall to reaping once more.
1 comment:
I'm gonna guess, wheat field.
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