The setting sun slowly sinks to the west, and the afterglow is like fire, sprinkling on the golden wheat field that is almost harvested. The wheat stubble is low in the wind, like a quiet farewell.
Everyone has been working all afternoon.
Their clothes are already soaked, their palms are red and swollen, and their backs are sore, but no one complains. Because those piles of wheat bundles were harvested by their own hands, and they are real food.
In these end times, there is nothing more reassuring than this.
Lin Ci sat down on the grass, leaned against a crooked tree, and exhaled: "My waist is about to break... Next time I see a wheat field, remember to let me do less work."
Several people laughed when they heard it.
Old Zhou wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and said with emotion: "Okay, this trip is worth it. With these wheat, we can last for several months after returning to the base. Steamed buns, porridge, finally I can have a decent meal."
