The Harvest

Old trees and planted shrubs separated the fields. A long sand and gravel path divided the land. As with previous generations, she walked through the rows of soft, flaxen threads amidst the silence of the birds. Harvest time. The smell of earth is more potent after the scythe’s touch. A reaper with dust-caked eyes, and cracked hands, she lays the last bushel of the season. Reap more than you sow—so is the Law of the Harvest.