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.