cornfield, Toppenish
If, as the Bard said, "All the world's a stage,"
know this -- this theater is not lined with the
glitter of the city's million lights. There is no
red carpet, plush and yielding under rhinestone
heels. Not here the buzz and purr of neon, the many
doors clattering open and shut, the flutter of a
boutique hem against a backdrop of asphalt and fast
wheels.
The story of this valley is played under the pale flag of the corn husk in the wind, its soundtrack is a far-off rustle sometimes lost in the whipping wind of a passing truck. This set's dirt floor can be fine as hourglass sand, hard as fists knocking against thick-soled boots. This stage is not the chatter and jive of the street, but the slow heartbeat of patient fields, turning season by season, stretching forward, open, ready for the next act.
The story of this valley is played under the pale flag of the corn husk in the wind, its soundtrack is a far-off rustle sometimes lost in the whipping wind of a passing truck. This set's dirt floor can be fine as hourglass sand, hard as fists knocking against thick-soled boots. This stage is not the chatter and jive of the street, but the slow heartbeat of patient fields, turning season by season, stretching forward, open, ready for the next act.
