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.”
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