Harvest Under Question

They press forward as though the field itself might splinter without their weight, arms taut, fingers gripping the straw like it could answer them back. The tractor crouches low in the furrows, its curves etched with the riddle: **Where Vojta?** Sun-cuts rake over every ridge of metal, turning shadows into small wounds. No one blinks. Even the air feels lacquered, stilled to a stubborn hum, as if an unseen hand halted the day mid-breath. A proverb drifts on the breeze in whispers some swear they hear—*Who drives against the grain loses more than seed.* And yet, none speak it aloud; their mouths are anchors, their shoulders squared like gears refusing collapse. Beyond them, lines of earth reach for mountains, obedient and endless, yet something vital has slipped loose. That name carved under the wheel remains the only motion, spinning through thought while the engine’s snarl fades to silence. Vojta has not returned, and the rows offer no reply.