Wind in the barley

Katie danced with the barley. She threw her arms out and spun round, now running, now still. The barley danced around her as far as the eye could see, waving its ripe yellowness in the joyful embrace of the wind, patterns always changing, always intricate and always alluring. This was where she felt free, connected to the lush crop with sibling intimacy; she touched it as she moved, relishing the roughness of the dancing grain.

High above her head, the power lines’ steady crackle was masked completely by the whistling of the wind as it stroked the wires. Their dance a languid counterpoint to the barley’s youthful energy, their song rising and falling as the shapes moved and reformed in the field below.

The pain in her abdomen brought her inside, as it always did. Her parents reassured her that she was fine, for now, and that all was normal. They would be going to The Centre in two weeks’ time: they would make it better there.

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