I grew up visiting a family farm. We kids would run through the corn and ride behind the harvester dodging jumping crickets upset by the machinery. Polly's field is right down the road and I had watched this field begin to turn color with the cooler nights. I knew I to paint it. I hiked in with my big easel and could stand still and listen as the stalks made a papery sound in the breeze. Deer were softly picking a path towards the fallen ears, birds chittering, mice and squirrels and rabbits gathered.
