Reapers

　　by Jean Toomer

　　 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.

　　-