Dead Fields

At first glance, it looks like death. Grayish brown, still, parched, rustling.
If stepped on, it might crunch, crumble, and blow away.   
It's 100 varieties of brown and 3 shades of brownish green lingering through.
Scarred. Mottled with marks of existence.

The display of desolation would present perfectly if not for the  stubborn spurts of life.
We originated from migration, dust, from poverty clashed with ingenuity - sparking hope.
We grew up with dust in our eyes, wind parching our lips.  Particles of studies settling in our pores, the statistics of failure. 
And yet we stay. We grow under a demanding sun. We hope against popular odds.
We know that in a dead field there is unseen life.  We know that where there is nothing vitality can hide beneath the surface.
Dig in and churn, there is abundance, just add water. Delve deeper and fortune courses under the ugliest crust.

 

The spirit of our home reaches back to our founders. Reaches back to the assurance that despite all appearances, encountering nothing is a catalyst for success.

So we stay with dust filled lungs and souls because endurance, hope, and effort were our founders.  Though it is brown, still and parched, we are the life that defies the first glance.