A cornfield at the end of summer with the wind moving through–a hundred whispers of dry, rustling stalks speaking to each other. They’ve felt the warmth of sun, held the golden, full ears of yellow corn, as they stood with tasseled heads erect, their roots deep in damp earth. They’ve known the farmer and his boy moving among them at harvest, gathering summer’s bounty.
Now, the stalks whisper together, brown and crisp under a yellow moon. Field mice skitter between their feet, 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 under the moon moving silently across the ground. Quick! the stalks whisper. Hide! And the mice scurry to their tunnels, hearts racing, out of sight until the shadow glides away.
The dry stalks have seen many things, heard the voices of rain and thunder, watched strange and mysterious happenings under the moon’s light. They remember and 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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