Down the road, evening

The red tractor and trailer enters the cut wheatfield, and half submerges in choppy waves of straw. It will gather these up and turn them into golden studs of bales.

Down the road, evening.

Having long assumed it's a plane, discovering another a few miles away, I conclude next-door's tree is a flowerless tulip tree.  Odd, a tulip-less tulip tree, but perhaps not intentional.

Down the road, evening.

The sorrel was a rust-pink haze, the hogweed flowered and seeded in upward asymmetrical, art nouveau curves like something from the Paris metro.

Both are cut, will grow back.