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The field by us was harvested of its sunflower seeds yesterday afternoon, signalling the end of the summer season. As we’ve watched the blossoms go through their growing cycle two summers on the trot, I expect some other crop will be planted next year. If that proves to be the case, we’ll miss the extra sunshine their golden faces bring. By the time the giant yellow harvester trundled into view, dragging its dusty wake behind, the beautiful green leaves had shrivelled to scorched black paper, clinging to dismal black stalks. The sooty faces hanging so sadly, it was almost as though a bush fire had swept through the field. It’ll put a sharp end to the merry chatter of sparrows, feasting to their heart’s content, we’ve heard over the last month or more. They’ll be some wet eyes and damp feathers back at the nest, methinks.
Une fois. Encore.
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