Fields

It's because he was respectful of their efforts and paid well that the migrant workers told him about the fields. At worst, they figured that he would dismiss it and just keep going - doing fairly well for being a good man and keeping the farm organic; at best, he'd get it ... and live accordingly. He listened carefully and understood (which was not entirely a surprise, but a delight to them); he went out to the edge of the back active growth and thanked it - even said he was sorry for having so much to learn. Impossibly, it was as if the ground stirred under his feet and he could see his neighbor's huckberry creep stopped in a hard line on that side of the hill (where it should've infiltrated and started strangling old vines by now). He saw and he was grateful to the earth for all of its mysteries and all of its patience. He also left the boombox in the rows as instructed (wrapped in plastic with a little solar panel attached to keep the batteries juiced); the fields liked public radio. "The plants ... well ... they could cure cancer if they wanted to," Miguel had said to him, out at the truck sharing a beer. "They'd step forward and give us the last puzzle piece - give science the 'breakthrough' it so desperately wants." "But they're waiting?" he had asked, already knowing the answer. "If you flew in from another planet looking to adopt, would you rescue us?" Miguel had laughed. "We suck, man." "Not all of us," he had answered, putting a hand on Miguel's shoulder. "Not all." And the fields liked that, wondering if they should reward it.