They planted the five-acre patch that had gone fallow. Silas had never seen seeds like these: small, dark, angry-looking, like pellets of black pepper. Lena walked the rows, broadcasting by hand, her rhythm old as sowing itself.
He wanted to argue. But he saw the quiet fire in her eyes—the same fire his late wife had when she’d insisted on planting sunflowers the year the drought hit. He pushed back from the table. “Show me.” mustard cover crop seed
The rain came two days later. Gentle. Persuasive. They planted the five-acre patch that had gone fallow
Within a week, the mustard exploded. Not like a crop—like a conquest. The seedlings were aggressive, broad-leaved, a carpet of deep green that swallowed weeds whole. Within a month, the field was a sea of brilliant yellow flowers, humming with a fury of bees. It was beautiful, and it hurt Silas to mow it down at its peak. He wanted to argue
“It’s working,” Lena whispered, sniffing the air like a wolf.