The maize fields never truly change.
After the first plant, returning the grain to the bean and squash, the new green fingers stretch to the sky then taller and taller. They become swelling gourds of yellowing white. From my home, above the rest of the village, when the wind slides down to the fields, the green clad girls toss their silver hair in dance. In harvest they fall, pouring the stream of gold in front of wide eyed children. Then they are dancing again in the harvest feast, leaving their paling shoes behind with the soft ground between the beans and squash.
But the maize fields are always the same.
Next colour: Baby Blue