Years of coaxing crops from Randolph County's flattops have taught Willie B. Heard that few things won't come with time, a kiss or two from the sun, and a good working over by his mules Minnie and Joe.

It is his land. He relies on it to feed his body as well as his spirit. There's corn for the cows, and fescue hay that dries in the summer breeze and perfumes the air.

Life and the Army took him away from Randolph County for a dozen or so years, but the land, and what comes from it, called him back.

Its woods provide fuel for the stove that holds court in the center of his small house, a structure of indeterminate age that's seen additions and alterations pass like a prevailing wind. The home's accompanying players on the rural stage — a barn, shed and corncrib — elegantly bear the signs of age and storms and heat.

On his farm, with the hum of modern life muted by distance, the dominant tone is rendered by crows and jays while the wind plays with a sheet of tin. The underscore is as patient and timeless as the farmer: the plodding shuffle of a mule's hoof beats on dirt and the jangle of a harness.

The season moves on.