Description
Every summer, the harvesting of the hay takes place on the fields as I travel toward work. One particular spot has its own shade tree, which I love and pray no farmer sacrifices to the god of more ground for more crop seeds.
   I love the texture of the hay in the conical rolls, slightly askew on the straight furrows of the hay, green trees and cumulous clouds off in the distance in the Carolina blue skies. My imagination, ever fanciful, remembers the tale of Rumpelstiltskin who spun pure gold every time I saw this, so I had to paint it. A wonderful sacramental gold hovers around the everyday in these moments.
The beautiful re-visiting of familiar landscape scenes weaves its seasonal presence in the hay bales that fill the fields.
The beautiful re-visiting of familiar landscape scenes weaves its seasonal presence in the hay bales that fill the fields.
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