lips.
As dawn broke, painting the sky in strokes of bruised
purple and fiery orange, Eli was already out in the fields.
The golden wheat fell before the blades, row after row.
When his grandson woke up and ran out to the edge of the
field, waving happily, Eli waved back.
hat evening, with the harvest safely in the silo and
the tractor resting quietly in the barn, Big Eli finally
sat on his front porch. He cracked open a cheap domestic
beer and took a long, slow sip.
The cicadas were starting their nightly chorus again,
buzzing steadily in the humid air. His knuckles ached, and
a noticeable purple bruise was blossoming on his
forehead, but the farm was safe. The debt would be paid
on the first.
He leaned back in his rocking chair, closing his eyes. The
ghost of the jungle was quiet once more, replaced by the
gentle rustle of the wind through the remaining stalks of
wheat. The old farmer smiled, letting the peace finally
wash over him.