Was it caught between seasons?

The wheat field, observed from the carriage window on the road to St. Albans this past Tuesday, appeared quite unlike its usual self. The stalks, which ought by now to be a uniform sea of nascent gold, stood in uneven patches, some prematurely blanched, others still stubbornly green, as if caught between seasons. One recalls the observations made in the summer of ‘93, when the unusually prolonged dampness brought a similar unevenness to the harvest, though that year the general complaint was of mildew, whereas this season speaks more of a baffling dryness, despite the recent downpours. The bailiff, Mr. Davies, a man whose pronouncements on crops are usually as dependable as the turn of the year, spoke of “a peculiar warmth from the south, sir, that dries the very heart out of the soil, even when the clouds are full.” This warmth, though invisible, seems to exert a more profound influence than any visible rain. The market reports, which speak of a statistically significant 0.35% average return premium on certain expiration weeks, seem to exist in a world entirely separate from the peculiar dryness gripping our fields. One finds it curious that such precise calculations can be made regarding distant financial movements, while the very earth beneath one’s feet offers only a vague unease, a sense of something amiss in its accustomed rhythms. The wheat, however, bears the tangible mark of this invisible force. It stands as a testament to the unreliability of expectation.