He was sharpening scythes,
an unlit pipe clenched between
his tobacco stained teeth.
Treading the pedal, moving a leather belt
rotating the formidable round stone
in and out of water
pressing the long handled scythe
against the stone's smooth surface
guiding the metal back and forth across.

He spent much time
sharpening one scythe after another
until four of them leaned against
the barn wall behind him
blue blades gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
Eight acres needed cutting next day.

At three in the morning he left the house
slipping his favorite sharpening stone
into his back pocket.
He hoisted the scythes over his shoulder
wrapping his arm across their long handles
pushing down on the cross hold.

He cut a mystical figure in the pre-dawn dark
walking off in loping gait,
four sharp long knives suspended shadow-close
their points narrowly missing the pierce to his calf,
a strong man,
shoulders bent from a lifetime of hard labor,
Father Death in a Durer painting.