The Wheat Field

The wheat brushed her legs as she walked through the field. It was the third time in a week that she had taken this path.

I wonder what Papa will say this time?

Maybe it's just a coincidence.

The crows cawed in response, circling above the usual spot.

She walked on.

The smell hit her first. Of fresh blood and dead wheat.

The wind changed direction, bending more wheat to the wind. It forced an opening for her to see ahead.

Third time unlucky.

Another one lost to the wild.