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.