From the Field Journal
There was once one pumpkin left in the farthest row.
It was not the largest pumpkin. It was not the roundest. One side had grown against a stone, and its stem leaned thoughtfully toward the path.
Each morning, wagons carried pumpkins toward the farm stand. Each evening, the little pumpkin remained beneath the maple.
“Perhaps it has been overlooked,” said the Bookkeeper.
Edgar shook his feathers. “Waiting,” he said.
Late one afternoon, after the sun had turned the greenhouse windows gold, a traveler reached the far row. They had walked slowly and stopped often. When they saw the little pumpkin, they smiled as though they recognized an old friend.
“There you are,” the traveler said.
The pumpkin had not been overlooked. It had simply been waiting for the person who would know it at once.
Some things arrive late only because they are arriving exactly on time.