The golden heads of grain bowed in the passing breeze; the field shimmered in waves of glistening sunlight. The ratty, old clothes of the scarecrow was caught up in the spirit of the thing, and the distant figure began to dance.
It was sunset and near twilight; there was no work to do. The old farmer sat on his porch, his eyes and his thoughts wandering as they would, from distant prospect to nearer matters. He contemplated his hands, the liver spots and dirty nails and calluses which made up a sort of living history of his life. Work and toil were written there, a lifetime of honest labor.
And the wind passed through the amber field like a medley of dreams as the shadows lengthened.
Tale Told 