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 Threshing Under the polished spokes of the sun, they sickle and sheave their wheat. He sings her that song she’s been wanting to hear of riffling water and sweet fall breeze. But these are her hands calloused with rhythm, this is her hair full of sweat and chaff. She braids her body through the rows, reaping his voice and the autumn seed. On this day she will leave the field, leave the husk of her self. She will rise to praise the harvest moon, the spirit of soil, wind and rain. On this night she will lie with her man and remember the boots under their bed. They will weave their limbs and twine their dreams and bless each other with their breath. In sleep they will grow together, root, stalk, and grain. ...

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