Harvest

The sickle sliced through the golden corn making a satisfying swooshing noise.
It made a rhythmic noise as I continued with my work. I stood up and stretched, with both hands on my back, my trusty sickle balanced in it’s usual place on my left shoulder.
I looked back and surveyed the extent of my destruction and sighed. Only a third of the way through and the sun beginning to droop.
I must carry on and speed up. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
The cold dew of the morning will cut through my hands. Much better to carry on now whilst the corn is dry and warm to the touch.
I bend down and continue, swooshing my way through, building up the rhythm in an attempt to harvest more, more quickly.
I catch a tune drifting my way from a neighbour up the hill, also harvesting to feed their family.
I catch that tune and take it and bend it to my will. I sing an octave higher and harmonise.  This lifts my spirits and it joins the rhythm of the sickle in my hand.
The work quickens and becomes joyous, in equal measure to the sting in my lower back.
I must carry on to the end, even though the sun is reddening my face and the dark is pulling me into the cold, behind.
The sickle is as desperate to end this, as am I, and it takes a life of it’s own.
My work will be done.

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Photo by Tony Legg on jpgmag.com

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Filed under Writing: Prose & Poetry

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