As the summer grew, so did we, stretching up from the ground on shaky stalks of brown and amber. We grew tall and straight and proud, reaching toward the sun, the blazing yellow that gave us energy, lent us strength. Gave us the room to grow. The night was a time for reflection, to allow our shaggy heads to droop in thought, to sway in time with a nonexistent breeze. The two-legged ones were never around at night, and this gave us respite. A chance to gossip, to twist together in ways that nature never intended.

When the summer waned, we grew anxious. We knew what was coming. The wholesale slaughter of our kind. We felt pity for the young ones, who would never know a time without pain. The sharp metal slicing through their stalk, spilling their life's blood onto the thirsty ground. The time of the reaping.

But until then, it was a time to enjoy the vibrant sunshine, the brilliant blue sky. Grandfather, the oldest of our kind, said that one day, he would reach the sky and drift among the white wisps of clouds. We laughed at him, but politely. Perhaps it could happen. Perhaps. Grandfather had escaped the reaping three times somehow. That made him legendary. Magick. Perhaps he could reach the sky.

I whispered our legends to my brothers and sisters while the horizon darkened. They listened in awe, silent for once at this expression of our traditions. When a shadow passed before the sun and the world was dark as night in the middle of the day, that was when the uprising would come, I explained, swaying in determination. Then those who were the reapers would themselves become the reaped. The world would tremble, but we would be merciful. And they would come to love us.

Perhaps this summer, I would explain in those long, still twilights, would be the one. Perhaps this summer would be when the world would change.

And this hope kept us alive. Kept us strong. Growing tall and healthy and beautiful, gleaming in the light of the sun. Waiting for our chance. Waiting...for the reaping.