rottenart

the farm

the wind was ripping across the fields and the cornstalks were waving back and forth like an enthusiastic audience. Finch stood with his back to the setting sun watching the plants reflect the golden rays. it would be harvest tomorrow, and he was looking forward to climbing into the old threshing machine and riding it across the plain. it always made him feel a little sad to hear the humming of the motor and the squeak of the arm as it gathered the crops into its maw. it was like a end to the year. Finch listened as the locuses chirped in the fledgling night. he turned to walk up the dirt road that ran between his two fields and back to his modest home. smoke was curling up into the cool night sky, forming complex patterns of white and grey above the rooftop. Finch smiled.

he had lived in this spot for years and never tired of watching the sun set behind the crops. there had been some rough times but overall Finch was happy with his station and prayed every night for the luck to hold out. the prices he was getting lately were some of the best yet and he would soon be able to improve his land and buy some new equipment. Finch let out a small giggle as he thought about being able to hire some workers to help out with the workload. he had been alone for so long that it was difficult to imagine anyone else in the small house. Finch crossed the living room and threw another log on the fire. embers exploded in a burst of orange and yellow and floated lazily up the flue. Finch rubbed his hands before the fire and watched it consume the new wood.

when he awoke, he was seated in his favorite rocking chair. the fire had burned out and a smoking pile of ash was all that remained. he got up and began to prepare his coffee and breakfast. he looked out the tiny kitchen window at the dew that covered the rows of corn. the morning sun was glinting off the droplets and made the stalks look like diamonds. he drank his coffee and ate his eggs and toast and had a few puffs of his old pipe before he put on his boots and walked out to the barn.

the thresher was locked up tight inside the old building. Finch had helped his father and grandfather build the barn many years ago. as the huge wooden door groaned open, Finch saw some sparrows flutter in circles then dart out the hole in the roof. he climbed up into the cab and started the giant machine. the engine roared to life and he shifted the gears with an ease that could only be had through years of practice. the thresher lurched forward and he began his slow, metered drive back and forth across the plain. it would take him the entire day to finish the harvest. Finch thought about the weeks ahead: loading the corn, hauling it into town, the sights and sounds of the market. he knew that he only had a few more years of this work inside him. he had no family, no heir to his meager farmland. there would be no one for him to share his waning years with. no one to watch the evening light turn the corn stalks into a symphony of yellow and green. Finch finished his round and drove the machine back into the barn. he would have some time to start the fire up again before the clouds turned pink and azure and violet. he thought he might make himself a whiskey tonight, to drink as he watched the sun make its descent.