Reapers

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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.

Written by Jean Toomer (1894-1967)

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