Sunlight glances off sickles held high above their heads.
Proud sun at its zenith, sky flawless azure. A breeze weaves their hair into dance – in and out, away it goes.
A wheatsheaf stook adorned with gold; tall and glorious it stands. Momentarily interrupting the golden sun, drawing a cold curtain over the ecstasy and laughter, fleeting obscurity.
Sunlight catches sickles held high above their heads.
Tiny bells chime – oh, they dance, oh, they sing – with such great joy. To the stook is tethered a secret. A gift.
Sunlight flashes on the sickles as they fall.
The golden son is awoken.