And as the sun climbed over the eastern fields, I thought about the woman who had spent sixteen months trying to convince the world that my farm belonged to her neighborhood.
She’d nearly destroyed herself trying to move a boundary that had been settled decades before she arrived.
Meanwhile, the corn didn’t care about her title, her lawyers, her expensive car, or the thousands of dollars she’d spent fighting me.
It only cared whether the soil was ready, whether there was enough moisture, and whether somebody showed up to do the work.
So that’s what I did.
I showed up.
I planted.
And I kept farming.
THE END
