The First Harvest

The field stretches before me, a sea of gold beneath the late July sun.

Barley and wheat bend in the warm breeze, heads heavy with grain, slowly nodding as if in ancient recognition. The air carries the rich scent of sun-warmed earth and ripening, bees hum their final working song, flower to flower.

We stand now at the threshold—no longer high summer, not yet autumn—in that sacred pause when the first fruits of the year's labour reach their prime. In this moment of abundance and anticipation, I find myself wondering; what does it truly mean to honour the first harvest?

Rowan.