A cornfield in the fall under a full moon–a hundred murmurs of dry, rustling stalks speaking to each other. They’ve felt the warmth of sun and held the golden, full ears of yellow corn, standing with tasseled heads erect, their roots deep in damp earth. They’ve known the farmer and his boy moving among them.
Now, summer and harvest are over and done with. Field mice skitter between and under them, finding a few stray kernels of corn, building hidden tunnels in the ground beneath the corn’s loosened roots.
An owl soars overhead, his shadow gliding across the ground. Quick! the dry leaves say. Hide! And the mice scurry to their tunnels, hearts racing, crouching out of sight until the shadow soars away.
The stalks nod their heads. Their whispers are heard only by each other and the night wind and the small, wild things who shelter there.
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