The flail mower chewed the flowers into confetti. Then came the rototiller, churning the green wreckage into the topsoil. For three days, the field smelled like a horseradish factory—sharp, hot, stinging. Silas’s eyes watered just walking the perimeter.
He held the root in his palm, trembling. Then he looked out over the field. The mustard was gone, but its ghost remained—a heat in the soil, a memory of fire. Lena knelt beside him, mud on her jeans, and placed the empty seed packet into his hand. mustard cover crop seed
Within a week, the mustard exploded. Not like a crop—like a conquest. The seedlings were aggressive, broad-leaved, a carpet of deep green that swallowed weeds whole. Within a month, the field was a sea of brilliant yellow flowers, humming with a fury of bees. It was beautiful, and it hurt Silas to mow it down at its peak. The flail mower chewed the flowers into confetti