Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones <br />Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones <br />In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done, <br />And start their silent swinging, one by one. <br />Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, <br />And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds, <br />His belly close to ground. I see the blade, <br />Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.<br /><br />Jean Toomer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/reapers/
