Fields breathe out their tired gold as dawn loosens the last threads of summer.
Hands move through stalks like quiet wind, gathering stories ripened in long heat.
The earth hums underfoot, grateful, spent, yet generous once more.
In heaped baskets, light pools around every grain, a small promise held close.
We walk home slowly, brushing dust from our sleeves, tasting the season’s ending, carrying its bright, brief fullness into the cooling dusk beyond this day.
https://fakeflamenco.com/2025/11/11/thankful-for-the-harvest/
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