The Sower

Arnold gazed eastward, squinting. His callused hands hung by thumbs hooked to his belt. He had beaten the rooster by at least an hour, and his hands lit a pipe in celebration. A cool breeze passed through, teasing the plowed field, the chimes, and his arms. The barn stood sturdy, ready for the season. Seasoned tools hung on the new walls. The screen door behind him swung and she stood next to him on the porch, his hand stroked her back. She looked at him, he peered eastward, a subtle smile concealing a laugh, “It’s going to be a good year.”