Under clear skies and a gentle breeze, the wheat fields gently surged beneath the blazing sun, rising and falling like golden silk, painting the shape of the wind.
Heavy, ripe ears of wheat bowed their heads, rustling and whispering against one another in the breeze.
Distant mountains, irrigation ditches, tranquil and peaceful.
A yellow dog's tail stood upright amid the wheat, following a child as the child ran joyfully past. An old man, bent at the waist, repeated the harvesting motion again and again. His dry, skinny hands, cracked like withered vines, wrapped around the sickle's handle. Every so often, he raised his head to wipe his face and look at his grandson behind him, bent over picking up fallen ears of wheat.
The farmers harvesting nearby gradually straightened their backs.
The old man noticed something was wrong as well. He looked toward the official road and saw dust billowing up in the direction of the distant county town.
The farmers began discussing it among themselves.
Those with experience could tell at a glance that many people were hurrying along, with horses and carriages among them. Only wealthy masters could afford such things. Harvest time was almost here—why were they suddenly racing away in such a panic?
The dust kicked up by their passage was blown aside by the wind, revealing a bustling, crowded procession.
The farmers in the wheat fields beside the road watched blankly as the procession raced past. Fast horses led the way. Important figures who normally held their heads high carried bundles and galloped frantically, the dust stirred up by hooves and the stench of livestock making the farmers on this side cough. The farmers on the windward side of the road cautiously raised their heads to watch, guessing at what had happened. It was probably