Scythe

She haunts the wheat fields,

bare feet tracing the earth’s soft spine,

a darkness among the golden ghosts.

The blade in her hands is steady,

silver against the morning moon,

a line between what stays and what goes.

She was born for this

for clean-cut endings,

for leaving the land bare and waiting for their cries.

Somewhere in the distance, the crow calls to her,

a prophecy by way of the wind.

She doesn’t look back.

She knows how to harvest.

She knows how and when to let things die.