The Weight of Dry Earth
The plow sat where it had stopped in April, its iron share buried three inches into soil that had turned to powder the color of old bone. A month of wind had sculpted a dune against its left mouldboard, the dust packed tight in the joints where metal met metal, sifting finer than flour into the grease fittings until the zerks had seized solid. The wooden handles, once worn smooth by the grip of...
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