Tractor roars until five am one morning; it's done its bit, tugging a heavy red trailer piled high with corn. Combine takes its rest between leads, its razor sharp teeth sigh as the stars twinkle in an inky-blue filter. Farmer wills himself to keep going, forecast bad, fields ready, no time to stop and stare. Day mingles into night; two machines chug on, their alien shape taking form against the backdrop of barley fields and a coastal landscape. Gone are the days when help was readily available. Where are the farmhands, why do they hide? You hire in help and you lose what little profit your weary bones work to achieve, yet a farmer keeps going. He always keeps going.
The rain falls, pitter patter on fields of stubble, soaking straw spat out in the wake of corn. No good to bale when it's wet, another day will pass as farmer watches the weather forecast and hopes the sun will shine; at least the straw will dry and bales be sold, perhaps little consolation for a succession of twenty hour shifts. Yet the farmer's wife secretly prays for the rain to continue; not to dampen spirits, but to dampen earth, to prevent farmer from climbing back into a machine that sits in a cosy shed, resting, silently.
And then the sun appears and the farmer's eyes light up like the stars that twinkled upon a combine's teeth. No time to sit around idle, too much work to be done whilst the sun shines. A flask of tea and a slice of cake, the perfect accompaniment to a day in the combine, once more destined to make alien faces around twenty acres of ripened seed. Huge white lights tramline across the landscape as the farmer's wife looks at the clock and wishes longingly for a decent yield.