All The Convicts Are Lying Awake

Sweet and lonely sound slips from a crow’s throat. Bathed in pale light from the Milky Way. Across dark fields, hot wind plays in the shadows of corn stalks and shifts restlessly in the summer night. The corn, in rows, stares blindly into space. Each plant a tiny factory pulling elements from the soil. Dirt and water and light. With tiny cells chugging along. One cell; a microscopic Sysyphus. Its only purpose is to turn dirt into corn. Those tiny gears turn in the night. And the black crow watches.

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