A golden blanket covered the dusty lightish brown soil, rippling in the wind creating a mesmerizing spectacle. The flat ground had only ripe golden wheat as far as an eagle could see in every direction, rippling and shifting in the subtle breeze. The sky above with a sun like a lemon hanging suspended as a donut on a stick paralleled the golden wheat with light indigo, perfectly matched as if summer, though it was, in fact, autumn. Not that you could tell, there wasn't a tree in sight. Nor was there a speck of green, it was the exact moment every blade was ripe, and soon a tractor and harvester came in, putting an end to the spectacle. But that in itself was a spectacle, it was so satisfying how wheat was fed into the mouth of the machine and the new seeds sown. And they did every other row so that for the remaining rows a bit later it was flawlessly completing the beautiful dusty light brown soil. Until all that remained was a barren brown field with only speck of pale yellow seeds, and the lemon sun shone down upon an empty field, waiting to be fulfilled again, but the seeds simply sank. The ground, once blanketed in gold, was now covered toastily with snow, which melted and gave way to a light green fuzz, which turned to a calmer, darker green, which again became golden. All the while the lemon sun watched, indifferent, as the cycle repeated indefinitely. White, fuzz, green, gold, and white again.