One of the amazing things about disasters is how peculiarly pretty they are. But generally things are awful too, and so they are missed, forgotten, or forever overshadowed by the disaster itself.
I work til about 2am at Walmart every night, and afterward I have to trudge up a long, winding hill to get home. On one side there are a bunch of apartment complexes, but on the right (the side of the road I walk) there’s a farmhouse with a huge pasture that runs the length of the hill.
Half of it is given over to grazing for his cows and horses, but the other half he uses for a big pumpkin patch every year. Winter hangs on here, so he’s just barely started to plow it under to get ready for planting, and tonight was a frosty night, with the wind rustling the grass along the fence line.
At 2am, dragging up that hill, I am just sleepy enough to imagine Kendra out there in the field, wearing the ghost sheet and holding a candle — just waiting for someone to come walking by.
I’ve never been in a wheat maze. I’ve done scads of corn mazes, but never wheat. How would that work?
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