Crows and Locusts

Summer. Mid-day heat. Pouring rain. Wild wind. Air that makes lips and hearts freeze.

Many gave up.
Few remained.

Our hands are bleeding. Our faces are all covered with mud, mixed with tears.

The plough is so heavy and the ground it seems has never been drier.

Stones. Everywhere.

We brush away sweat. There's no time for water or food.

The field is so big.

Many have fallen. Many have died.

The seeds seem so small. And the fatigue so big.

But the ones alive keep going. So am I.

It hasn't rained in months. In years.

What about our harvest?

We fought hard.

"Something's still gonna grow.

I'm not leaving till it does."