They fall before me.

Some of the stalks see the scythe coming. Most do not. They fall, regardless.

Most of them know I’ll get to them eventually. Some deny it. Some embrace it.

Others are comforted by stories about being reborn as a new stalk. Still others dream of an imaginary wheatfield somewhere in the sky. Many try to lessen my sting by spreading their seed.

Only a very few know the truth: Once taken, they will lie, broken, in the rich soil, returning their borrowed molecules to it. In a short time, they will be gone, forgotten, their influence diluted to insignificance. Nothing they can do will change that.

I have no meaning, no purpose. I just am. I will not be denied.

And I love my job.