We are staying in a bland, brick home filled neighborhood. The house sits on the edge of a cul-de-sac, backed up to a corn field.

The field has been my comfort, as I am far from home, and in a place that isolates me even further from my family.

I go to the backyard whenever I need a few minutes to breathe.

The corn field is just a few feet from the back chain link fence.

The field rustles, verdant against the pale blue of the late summer skies. The corn has already tassled, signaling the coming fade to brown that will herald harvest time.

The tassled tops are gold, shivering with every breeze. Beneath them, the leaves of the stalks scrape and shove against each other in the scant inches between each stalk. Each push of air causes noise, more raucous as the wind increases.

Below the jostling corn, the crickets sing. Unseen, their high chirping underscore the shuffling noises above. Their song comes from a thousand places at once, yet not a single hopping insect is seen while I stand there listening.

The sun begins to set, and the harvest moon rises in the west. As daylight drops into night, the field darkens to a rich green black.

The stalks shuffle.

The crickets sing.

I am at peace.