The Golden Fields

The wheat stands tall now, golden and waving in the afternoon breeze, the way fire flickers gently before nightfall. I walk a narrow dirt path cutting through the fields, the stalks brushing against my legs, whispering a language older than words. The sun is heavy above me, casting long shadows between each furrowed row, as if the land itself is exhaling.

At the edge of the field stands a farmer, shirt rolled to his elbows, leaning on a shovel like a monk resting on a staff. His eyes meet mine and he smiles without words.

“Not long now,” he says eventually. “We wait until the wheat bends on its own. That’s how we know it’s ready.”

We stand in silence, watching the gold sway. I notice how the wind moves through the field in waves—never all at once, but in soft, slow ripples, like the breath of the earth itself.

He adds, “It’s not about taking. It’s about knowing when the land is ready to give.”

The harvest, I realize, isn’t rushed. It’s accepted. Received, not demanded.

I thank him and continue walking, the golden ocean around me humming with patience.