Tim Thin watched the wind move as an inky wave through the midnight corn fields outside his bedroom window. The darkness was filled with the dry rasping of corn stock against corn stock, a cricket’s horse concerto. He sniffed at the air seeking a hint of where it came from, but all he detected was the aromas of farms; grain, dirt and fertilizer. Maybe, he imagined, the wind had originally blown out of the Sahara and caressed the face of the Sphinx or, perhaps it rose with the mist from the fe