Each step sent buds of corn flying like dying insects in the wake of my path. The corn and I were nothing but a dark stain on the horizon, the amber glow of the setting sun contrasting the growing bitter bite of the wind. I, of course, didn't care about the hot or the cold.
The fields were plowed and rowed. Each step was like trotting through a minefield. One wrong move, and I might have had to chase down someone by wing to get a new ankle. I shielded my eyes and kept moving, trying to get to the old barn in the center of the corn It stood there, a drooping frown spread across its rotting face. The roof might not have had the support to hold me, but it was good cover. And of course I was going to try anyway.
Sitting for hours stooped over like some gargoyle sitting on top of a roof is never fun, especially when each icy gust of wind rattles the building so hard you think you're going to crash right on your ass. Not fun at all, lemme tell you. But it's always worth the damn preparation just to get those few minutes chasing down a meal on wheels.