Harvest Question

This morning I heard refugees from Myanmar talk about attackers burning their children, raping their women, and beheading their men.

A friend posts about fleeing Hurricane Irma before it bears down on her home, while the earth quakes under Mexican sandals.

And for some reason I am lucky enough to be sitting beside my dad in his combine.

He’s bringing in the harvest, like he’s done every season for most of his seventy-five years. My daughter sits on the plastic lunch cooler by his feet and grabs for his leg when the header lurches, hungry for bounty.

Later, we climb off the John Deere and head to the tailgate to look for more cheesecake. I lick strawberries off my spoon, feel the canola stubble pricking my jeans and reach for my camera to capture the sunset. How is it I can take a second helping of desert and snap pictures of the horizon while the same sun rises over Burma?


cousins in the combine




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