ABSTRACT
The stubble field lies under the autumn sun, bare as a hog’s back except for the stiff bristles of the corn stubble. Their pale gold is reflected down the valley in the solid golden lump of the baled straw, packed high to the roof of the open-sided Dutch barn. The grain harvest is in; the straw all baled and carted; the field empty and silent except for the twittering groups of sparrows.
