A young girl sits among the wheatgrass as the golden hour sets its halo upon her strawberry blonde curls. She picks a daisy and adds it to her chain. Finding herself satisfied, she braids the white flowers into her hair. She lays back in the soft fluff of dew and grass, stretching her arms as far as she can, ripping fistfuls of fresh chickweed. Fiercely, she kicks off her boots. 

The amber sky stoops to kiss her freckled face, then straightens to watch over its field, its little girl. A soft sigh ripples the wild grasses. June violet seeps into the horizon for the crickets to sing a lullaby. Tonight they have an audience. The girl rolls over to her side, curling up against the cool night air. Her breathing steadies and eyelashes fall heavy against her cheeks. 

As stars fleck the indigo skies, a man with wide-brimmed hat and hunched back trudges through the field. He runs a calloused hand down his face from forehead, plastered in dry sweat, to chin, and through reddish-brown beard. A worn smile finds its way to his face seeing a girl with wildflowers matted in her unruly hair and dirt under her fingernails.

He takes off his old blue flannel and wraps it around the girl, cradling her in his arms in one fluid motion. The man began his journey towards the farmhouse, gingerly picking daisies from the girl’s hair and running fingers through curls. 

At home, he carefully pushes the door open with boot and steps into the cinnamon warmth of a candle-lit home. The grey cat takes its chances, slipping outside, the door closing with gentle thud. 

Upstairs, the girl is laid down in an old wood frame bed. The man pulls her pink quilt up to her chin and tucks her teddy in her arms, the way she holds it every night. With a kiss, he plucks one last leaf from her hair and leaves, closing the door behind him. 

Goodnight.