The road flickered through the sheaves of amber covering it. Grass harvest, and all the chaff strewn on the one flat surface, an incongruous strip of uncut stems waving next to it.
Pregnant round bales lined the side of the road, waiting to be picked up, waiting to be jumped on. I remember the time when my uncle, from the unseen house hidden atop the tree-filled hill, yelled down at us, Get Down! and we thought it was the voice of God.