When the wheat turns golden, my cousin and I bring the men their supper. The first harvest must be gathered as quickly as possible. No one can predict the next rainfall, or worse, another tornado. The roar of the machines unsuccessful in diminishing the beauty of this prairie landscape, I must soon close my eyes against the setting sun the colour of fire. The fields dance in its light and I am hard-pressed to find a line of any sort, that division between land and sky. I breathe in the familiar smell of grain dust, waiting for the combine to complete its row.
We will jump on to deliver the food already melting in the paper bag I hold and chat up a few words with my uncle. It’s very hard to hear anything though. Once standing on the side bar, I realize that he is pointing to something at the rear of his machine. The grain chamber isn’t working as it should. So I make my way, carefully, to unclog it. It scares me, the idea of losing a limb over this golden grass. Still, there is contentment in feeling I'm a part of the land’s life-cycle. My heart shares warmth with the sun that blurs my vision as I quickly free the machine of its obstruction.
My uncle gives me a quick nod of approval, and we soon reach the field’s border where the old rusted truck awaits us. Summertime on the Manitoba prairies will quickly lie behind me, giving way to the big white and a chill I can hardly imagine right now. But the brief period between snowfalls in my world will live on, and on frigid January days, I will close my eyes and return to the fields where the sun waltzes with wheat and wafts the aroma of summer earth my way.