The field had spoken to Jacob. He followed the fragrant voices further and further into the explosive mélange of purples, greens, oranges, lavenders and reds, stopping only to gather a fistful of yellows. He held them to the sunlight for a moment contemplating how they managed to tear themselves away from the ball in the sky only to land in fluttering tatters in his field. He surveyed the colours surrounding his knees. The purple? The blue? The orange? The red?
The green had come away from the trees bordering the field. He looked up to them to confirm the match. The purple from the gathering clouds. The blue from the snippets of sky overhead. But what of the others? Who were their parents?
"Jacob!" He turned to see the dotting forms of mama and papa in the distance. He had his "mother's eyes and his father's chin", so he had been told. He had broken away from them. Too far.
He dropped the yellows and scampered after them. The colours leaped up. He fanned his palms savouring their velvety heads. He looked back at the path he had ploughed. Looked down at his palms. Smears of faint yellow dust. Sun-dust.