Is it time? a solitary stem asks.

This message traverses the matrix of roots plugged into the arbuscular mycorrhizae fungal network beneath the field. From there it shimmies up other stems ragtiming the message to full golden heads bearing succulent kernels. The whole field rustles as if a gentle breeze blows across it, yet the night is still. The sound is lost amongst those made by animals who hunt at night. A fox twitches his ears as if he can hear that which is being relayed. He sniffs the air, tries to catch what is occurring through scent, then places his nose to the ground along the edge of the field. In the light of an ascending harvest moon, the fox sniffs a wheat leaf, shies away as if stung, lopes towards the nearby woods.

It is time... it is time... it is time...

An owl hoots a warning - All-be-a-ware!

The harvest moon reaches its zenith, shines down upon the awaiting wheat. It is almost time to reap what was sown in the spring.

The entire field of wheat stirs. A sequence of movements tremor across its surface. Top-heavy bearded heads sway.

We dance! We dance! Yes - we dance!

And the wheat dances. Each stem sways in celebration of the moon, its tidal effect on the earth, of early morning dew and the soil which sustains life, embraces death. Some move in unison, folding reverently towards the living matrix beneath them. Others stretch joyously upwards, reaching for the moon before bowing to the ground. The steps of their dance criss-cross, perfecting patterns of movement, creating something in the centre of the field.

From under the darkness of trees, the fox watches as the whole field whirls with motion. He throws his head back to howl at the unearthly beauty of the dance. Like the owl, he warns others in the vicinity to - Stay away! With a growl and a baring of teeth, the fox slinks further into the wood.

None of the golden heads hear him. They are lost within a dance which is gathering pace. Stems twist in time to the beat and ripened heads follow. Leaves flutter. Every part moves to the age-old ritual at the heart of every wheat seed.

The final phase of the dance passes along the fungal network in honour of the harvest moon. Wheat stems thresh back and forth, entwine and interlace, plait themselves flat to the ground. Intricate motion replaces that which was simpler. Stems form woven walkways which circle outwards. The patterns they form are geometrically balanced, symmetrical.

When the moon begins to dip out of the night sky and dawn approaches, the dance ends.

We have danced. We are done.

Wheat stems cease their movement, relax into the early warmth delivered by a pale sun.

There is an awareness of he who ploughed their seeds into earth drained of nourishment approaching. He walks amongst them, parting their stems to gaze at the pattern left by their dance. Six perfectly concentric circles inscribed with overlapping petals have been placed around a central circle containing a detailed floral disc.

"Well I'll be buggered," Harris says, pushing his cap back from his forehead, "It's a flower."

Those wheat-stems who remain standing rustle.

After licking his finger and holding it up only to find there is no wind, Harris shrugs. He walks along one of their carefully constructed pathways towards the centre of their arcane design. Once there, he spits on the floral disc.

The wheat falls silent.

"Bloody kids. This crop-circle covers half the bloody field. Cost me a fortune, they 'ave."

Is it time? a solitary stem asks.