A sea of hats,
rounded and thatched,
conceal sun-worn faces,
deftly wielding
tuned scythes,
nimble fingers,
in a measured rhythm.
Moving swiftly
in high grasses,
cutting the sticky air
with precision—
a swoosh,
a rustle,
dead grasses lie still.
Jagged peaks,
veils of fog,
resolute crouching,
dead-set gazes,
waiting, waiting,
for the whining rumble,
tangible in the air.
Piercing reverberations,
trembling meadows,
wicker baskets,
masked guns,
hushed glances,
a final breath,
all go silent.
Towering flames,
blood red
