Drive down any of the endless country roads where the corn or beans march close to the shoulder. Gone are the days when the sun grew long into the evening replaced by the waxing autumn moon. Rain on top of rain kept the harvest at bay until a steady west wind opened fields to man and machine. A haze now hangs over fields diffused by the dust and debris of distant combines working 24/7. Stop. Roll down your window and listen. There is a heartbeat in the fields. Under the midday sun or by the light of the midnight moon, you can hear it. From all directions and no direction at the same time, a distant hum grows into the din of threshing as otherworldly machines devour the army of maize and beans.
It is a ritual as old as time itself, the cycle of life, the harvest of bounty before the storm.