They're beautiful.
Even the winter fallow has it's own beauty - although some may prefer to just call it {dirt}.
Winter fallow seems so much {prettier} to me ... and I even think it makes me sound a bit more educated in the world of agriculture.
Anyway ...
This year, due to weather and temperatures, the wheat grew {gangbusters}.
It wasn't harvested on a normal schedule, so when I arrived home at the end of a long month of being away (July), I was thrilled to see there was still some wheat left standing.
I had great intentions of taking some photos of my handsome boys wandering through the fields ... and I even thought about cutting a bit for myself to put in a tin on my porch.
But the thing about my good intentions is that they usually remain just that.
Good intentions.
Each day I would drive the mile long stretch from the freeway to our house and think {today is the day} ... and then something would happen, or the schedule would change and I just never got to it.
And then, one day in early August, I started toward home from a morning in town to see combine dust swirling in the sky.
I was too late.
But was I really?
Two days later, as I walked toward the neighbor's mailbox with my camera around my neck - the sun making it's way toward the Pacific Ocean - I realized that I wasn't too late.
Yes, I was too late to capture my boys running and playing among the fields of golden grain, but I wasn't to late to capture the beauty left behind.
Not too late at all, because right along the edge of the field were a few stalks here and there.
And I think they were left here and there just for me.
They weren't the prettiest.
They weren't the tallest.
They were the ones that ate the most dust month after month.
They were the ones that didn't have protection from others surrounding them on all sides.
Yes, they were the ones left for me.
And what a difference those few that got left behind have made in the life of me.
