Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds.
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.
-"Reapers"
Jean Toomer
YOU ARE READING
Clue
Short StoryThe crowded room sung of fear, the feeling weaving itself through the essence of the people who resided there. No one spoke, a weariness locking in on their bones that sapped their strength. But when the door started to creak, the sound a harsh con...
