She stood waist-deep in the wheat, caught in the morning’s gold, as if the sun knew her, lingering, unwilling to move on. Her cheeks held the warmth of fall, a quiet bloom against sun-browned skin, like a single red flower rising where grain should be uniform. Dark hair slipped loose around her eyes, lashes guarding a brightness that might have startled the day if left uncovered. The brim of her hat softened her brow, and there she paused among the stacked fields, her face a prayer without words. Surely, I thought, heaven did not intend that I gather abundance while you survive on what’s left. Leave your gleaning— come share my harvest, come share my home.
