The Farmers Daughter


She was skilled with a scythe.
I sat on the side of the dirt and gravel road, watching her
With each sweep of the blade, she laid low another quarter sheave of wheat.
Stopping momentarily, she mopped the glistening moisture from her brow.
She smiled at me.
I smiled back.
She picked something from the ground.
Playfully, she tossed it in my direction.
I looked down and reached for it.
A gray pebble.
She was already upon me when I looked up.
Her eyes wide and perfect white teeth locked in a maddened grin.
She was skilled with a scythe.

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