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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.

by Jean Toomer
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