Scything Hay In The Dry Heat Of AutumnHis knees are rusty; he aches in the hips.
His face is caked with dust and sweat.
His sagging arm sways. His jar tips.
The tepid water spills out and leaves the ground wet.
He plants his feet, hoists the jar, and floods his mouth without regret.
To his throat, the earthen particles stick.
His mouth curls around the parched rim of the jar,
And his tongue slithers along the lining, searching for a lick.
His watery saliva stains the clay like a scar.
The mark fades quietly.
Her arms clasp around the long, splintery grass,
And her hands clutch the scorched, keen hay.
Sweat drenches her face and her facade shines like glass.
She licks her lips and her tongue clutches the sweaty spray.
Her jaw spasms from the saltiness, she winces, but her toil continues.