The Unmown Path

Sowing, burial, and cicadas

Morning by morning and ever earlier, I traipse the oak shade on the edge of a draw to our northwest, a scythe in my arms, and pick a line to mow before the dew burns off the waist high grass. Standing in the coolness of the wooded edge and shifting in my boots, a murmurous whine –like science-fiction flying saucers– rings out from the bottomlands, betwe…