Field

There is a field in the south of France that appears to be endless and untouched. The usual demarcations of land ownership are absent. There are no signs of toiling hands, no crops to plow, no roots of trees pierce the ground. There is only a seamless expanse of gold spilling over the land. It is said that to stand in the field is to find yourself in an ocean, waves of wind swell and surge through the tall grass soundlessly. From above the field appears haphazardly placed, as if a fraction of the sun dripped to earth. Birds and clouds rarely pass overhead. Most everyone avoids the field. Roads are planned in consideration. All care is taken to bypass the field at a measurable distance inconvenient to transportation. While the surrounding land must fall under some ownership there is no rush to lay claim, because of this the field's beginning and end is not easily traced. This inexplicable reverence has transpired through too many generations to fully understand. There are a few floating stories secreted away that speak of whispered pacts between human, animal and god. But no one really knows why or how the field remains as it does, seemingly endless and untouched.