The Buckwheat

At the edge of a wide, sunny field stood an old willow tree with soft, hanging branches. In the field grew tall wheat and barley that rustled in the wind. Near the ditch, a bright green plant lifted its head. It was the buckwheat, dressed in tiny white flowers that looked like little stars.

The buckwheat was very proud. “Look at me!” it said. “My blossoms are as white as the apple tree’s. Who is as fine as I am?” The wheat and barley said nothing. They just swayed gently and grew.

The old willow heard the buckwheat boasting. The willow’s leaves whispered, “Shh, little plant. The wind is rising. I can smell rain. I hear thunder far away. When the storm comes, bend your head and pray. Even people bow their heads when the sky is angry.”

“Bow?” cried the buckwheat. “Close my flowers? Never! I will stand tall. I will look straight into the storm. I will watch the lightning with my own eyes.”

Dark clouds piled up across the sky. They were thick and heavy, like mountains of smoke. The wind blew hard. The wheat and the barley bent low. The willow’s long branches swept the grass. Tiny meadow flowers pressed close to the ground.

Then the storm came. Rain fell in sheets. Thunder rolled and boomed. Crack! A bright flash tore the sky. The lightning shook its fiery whip.

The buckwheat stood as straight as a stick. “I will not bow!” it shouted. Another flash. Another crack. The air was sharp and bright. The buckwheat stared up at the blaze.

Where the lightning looks, its fire may follow. The buckwheat felt a fierce heat. Its leaves curled. Its blossoms turned black. Its stem was scorched and stiff.

At last, the storm passed. The clouds drifted away. Sunlight poured over the field. Water drops sparkled like beads on the wheat and barley. They lifted their heads again and shone with fresh green.

But the buckwheat did not lift its head. It stood dark and brittle by the ditch. Its white flowers were gone.

The old willow sighed softly. “Little plant,” the willow murmured, “you would not bend, though I warned you. We do not bow because the wind is strong. We bow because a great power moves through the wind and the lightning. When the storm speaks, we lower our heads and pray. That is how we keep safe.”

The buckwheat was silent. It could not answer. It had stared into the burning sky and lost its brightness.

A day later, children came along the path. They picked red poppies and blue cornflowers. They laughed and made little bundles of grain. One child pointed at the dark, stiff plant by the ditch. “What happened there?” he asked.

“The lightning burned it,” an older child said. “It wouldn’t bow its head when the storm came.”

The willow’s leaves rustled in the warm breeze, as if telling the story again. And the wheat and barley swayed, gentle and green, remembering how they had bent and waited, and how the sun had found them when the storm was done.