The Last Grain

    Several weeks ago, a grand field near my home held row upon row of tall, thick, healthy green corn stalks. All of the stalks stood proudly, their uniform height topped with marvelous tassels that bobbed and nodded whenever a strong breeze passed through them. And when the sunlight caught the ears just right, you'd swear they were the big, bold, and husky cousins of the pussy willow. Oh, such a sight to behold.

    But then the harvest came and went, like a thief in the night, and the cornfield became a ghost of itself. Even worse, though, the field became home to hundreds, if not thousands, of honking and foraging geese.

    Alas, even their presence is, at best, temporary. For once they've had their fill of the harvest's leftovers—unprocessed parts, mashed bits, waste grain and the like—they'll depart, en masse, for warmer climes and robust acreage. (I'm all but convinced that the resident field mice despise the transient fowls and are given to calling them "the amazing pooping machines" and "the fair-weather feathers.")

    Still, once the geese leave, all of us (mice included) will wait impatiently for the first snowfall, so that the vast emptiness that occupies both land and spirit will be concealed by a welcomed blanket of pure, undifferentiated white.

    The End

Copyright 2016 Christopher V. DeRobertis. All rights reserved.

This text composition is a work of fiction. Names, places, institutions, events, incidents, characters, persons, locations, contexts, scenes, scenarios, symbols, glyphs, iconography, and/or organizations either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Full Creative Writing Disclaimer.