The Fields of Rynheart
The field was like an ocean, waves of wheat and other various grains blowing in the dry whistling winter wind. From above it was like a tornado of grain. The delectable scents of fresh bread and crackling bacon fled like ants scurrying away from a foot toward the unending farmland from a lone fading brick cottage with ivy running up a blue-shingled roof. A sun is shining in a clear sky, a scarecrow stands with his straw hat frosted with a light dusting of snow. The wind blows a thin mist of snow, covering the fields with a shroud of whiteness. A lone killdeer shrieked a warning its black-striped wings glinting in the sun, throwing a shadow on the snowy ground below. A rabbit runs in corn patch chased by a gigantic brutal looking dog. Suddenly the unnatural silence is broken by the sounds of birds warning calls. The man is out of place his black suit contrasting with the pure bright snow. He is carrying a small attaché brief case. He kneels next to the scarecrow and opens the brief case. When he looks up again the scarecrow is no longer smiling. The man chuckles and walks out of the field, the giant graveyard of gray grain stalks. A lone killdeer shrieks.
The reason theres wheat and stuff is because its winter rye or whatever
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