Reaping at Sierra Madre


The night was dead and the moon grieved at the foot of Sierra Madre. As crackling shots and screams logged to our brains, we knew more bodies fell. The nightly dirge of sudden shrieks, wails, and cries brought in more ghosts of fright—exigent storm about to devour the land; the life. Every sharp strike of mattocks to some parched grounds bore graves—numbered cliffs of unmeasured pain. Gone are the nights that entreat rituals of laughter and reverie at the golden field. Those nights when after the hard days of work, humble fathers pride the fruit of each outlaid sweat, while the children dart soft trails of the rich rice field; mothers behind in joyous pursuit of a kiss. Gone are those nights except for the nightly procession of dead kin who nourished the land. Indeed, gone are those nights, extinguished like the children’s mirth. The summer reaping was delayed, but the land is waiting. Soon the sickle will slash the mighty wind around the robust mountain.


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