Clouds gather
A sudden gust of wind graces my face to offer reprieve
My palm sweaty as I grasp the machete tighter
I swing at the grass with spunk
Swoop after swoop
The weather an untimely promise of what is to come
Each swing is accompanied by the giggling of a congregation nearby
Quick to deride, jeer
Eyes moisten in close to no time
My disposition a catalyst for mockery as the rain smacks my back
My tears hard to spot in a flurry of solvent
Yet another languid swoop of the blade strikes a rock in the soil


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