That scythe synchronized
with the primordial pulse of him;
the movement smooth and sure,
unchanged by rising sun
or noon’s approaching.
It was not a gradual thing
that he built up to.
It began when the scythe
was in his hand; it ended
only when he set it down.
A whispered sound, a swish
unless a drought was on the land
and then a crackle, like wrinkled
paper rattling, but that rhythm
was something you could count on.