Thanks to Wallchan for the photograph.
A cool moon clouded over shines slight on a field of wheat, soft winds lay each down exerting its dominance and stating claim to the domain. Eagerly, excitedly they bow and dance in wild exuberance. Winds recede and are once again stood full at attention. A silent army in peacetime, frozen soldiers in a darkened world awaiting their next opportunity for short freedoms. Chirps softly fill the air echoing a thousand melodies of sunrises, battles, and births; of failings, great histories and the simple. Songs that gently float over the stoic front, saturating the air recreating countless stories. Weighted with these histories the field of the fierce grow weary and hot. Songs intermingle, attempting to push over one another rising with the heat and stating claim to their own domains. It’s there, with moonshine peeking through, the sky allows a great release. No longer standing tall, but flailing in base existence. Relief washes over, lifting the dank weight and clearing the slate for the next battle of earth and sky. Those only truly affected are the still. Those who remain rooted, unable to choose what moves them. Unable to decide their own fate.