I was born in Boort, Victoria into a grain farming family.

Grain is not metaphor in my life. It is lineage. It is in my blood. I was a newborn in my father’s harvester before I could walk.

Fields of gold defined my summers.

Christmas meant long days in the cab of Dad’s harvester, moving across paddocks under vast horizons. I sat at his feet drawing the machinery as he worked. Dust settled into skin. Heat pressed against the glass.

When the temperature reached thirty-four degrees, we stopped. Fire risk too high. Total fire ban in place. When conditions eased, we began again. Harvest was always calibrated against climate.

I grew up with the rituals that followed.

Post-harvest burn-offs. Controlled paddock fires. Columns of smoke rising against the horizon. Fire as management. Fire as reset.

I watched rows stripped clean. Field mice darted ahead of the blades. Ducklings emerged from stubble. We carried small lives home from labour.

When the grain tank filled, I climbed onto Dad’s lap and pressed the auger. Wheat poured into the silos in a dense golden stream. Standing in that flow felt like standing inside abundance.

These were formative years. They taught me labour, endurance, timing, restraint and reward. They shaped my understanding of responsibility and repetition. They shaped my discipline.

Within Harvest, Yield marks completion in the agricultural cycle. The split circle honours my mother and father. The three wheat stems represent my sisters and me.

Family and labour held in structure.

Yield holds the moment when effort evolves into provision. When land, climate, machinery and human endurance align and the cycle prepares to begin again.