[“The dark wheat listens” – James Wright]
The dark wheat hears that the harvesters are coming; they who take the field’s Fall offerings, swinging scythes, singing chants invented by their mothers’ fathers’ mothers, are coming.
The field welcomes the harvesters, ready to give up its heavy load of grain so fields may grow again, fresh and new.
But what is this! Not the harvesters this year, but some stinking loud machine. And one harvester only, who’s not even looking down
at our desperate attempts to beg his mercy.
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