The fire laps the logs as we crowd around with tin cups in hands and dirt clumps in boots. Sunlight drags its feet on its way out, as if hesitant in fear of missing out on conversation. "Good work today." "Thanks, you too." My nose is wiped along my sleeve, and we all laugh as sweat smears my face. The song we play is slow, tired, relieved. Grandpa plucks while we hum along, Uncle Joe bangs the fence posts like drums. My eyes wander as they smile, and the wheat stacks and bales look so proud in silhouette against a dimming sky. This life suddenly goes dark, and I hurry to write it all down before the scene leaves me for good.