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.