At heart - I'm a romantic.

I imagine there's magic in this ritual of gathering these corn stocks...cutting them down...grinding their fruit into meal.

I imagine a lone farmer toiling the soil. His work - often - tiresome and endless.
Filled with beauty...and meaning...and necessity...and urgency of purpose.

A man's gotta eat. Doesn't he? So do the sheep and the goats and the cows.
Winter's coming. The time is now.

I imagine - I'd love this kind of work.
I imagine - I'd hate it.

I imagine - I'd love the solitude. The rhythm and seasonal routine.
I imagine - i'd grow weary of its never-ending repetition.

I'm a romantic - I know.
The work is hard. The days are long. There's no magic.
What is harvested is at the mercy of the season's weather.

And yet - on this early morning?
In and among the over-ripened corn in their over-grown and fading fields?
I did believe.
At heart - after all - I am a romantic.