Harvest Moon, Iowa

“October and dad hasn't come inside before midnight in two weeks. The combine runs until the dew comes. You bring him thermos coffee and a sandwich wrapped in foil and sit on the truck tailgate watching. The dust rises gold in the headlights. The moon is harvest orange, so low and massive it looks painted on. You can hear the corn coming off — that particular ripping sound. The field shrinks in rows. Grain cart fills. The air smells like broken corn stalks and diesel and October. He waves from the cab. This is what your family does. This is what your family has always done.”