Once a year, people get a little frantic in the prairie bread basket, when the wheat ripens.
One eye furtively watching the sky, other watching the wheat turn. A ritual the farmer has perfected. The weather is not to hos liking nor is the whet ripening fast enough.
Then the day arrives. The big monster machines show and start gobbling up the wheat.
Field after field they shorn off. With a wet spring there are bumper crops sitting in the ground. The frenzy is rising to a pitch as they rush to get the wheat cut before any nasty weather.
The railroads are hopping to get rail cars in for them to ship the wheat out. Stacks of gold glisten in the distance.
Trucks hauling the harvest into town. The grain elevators busy getting them unloaded so then can hustle back out for another load.
Time is of the essence, for the weatherman has forecast afternoon thunder storms.
On through the heat of day, the combines march on. The traffic on the Interstate whizzes by as the big machines gobble up the plenty of the land.
Into the afternoon they grind on, clouds building. Hurrying to beat the weather. The harvest waits for not one. It is on God’s schedule and one has to make do with that.
