The dark damp earth folded over his hands, granular and moist the tilled soil greeted his nose with its rich aroma. His knees darkened and grass-stained, the wader's rubber kept him dry as he rested in his field. Seasons were changing, and as the sun began to peek it's horned head from over the mountains so too did his head peer into his family's rooms. Gathering them early and rising with the day as was his way.

Cradling the plants from his truck to the ground, pushing and moving aside dirt to make room for the new occupant. The stems and seeds nestled into their new home. Each filling the ground not just with their seed, but with hope. Hope for the new day's light, for the rain's water, and for the farmer himself and those whom he intended to feed.

Each day he worked his farm, each day his wife rested her hands on chin and lightly touched his shoulder, offering his hardened and aching back and arms respite. The dew in her eyes as she watched and helped the plants grow filling him with pride. The crops were an extension: of his dreams for his family to succeed, of his hopes and desires, of himself. In the same way that the water nurtured his plants, so too did it relieve him as he worked throughout the summer days.

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