Coming in

He went out early in denims, in hat for the sun, soil and stones, his work; accustomed to dust, green, and dried things, to the cycle of crops. Chlorophyll stains on cutting edges, on the brim of his hat, earth in his nostrils. To see him coming in against the evening sun, a single figure in a backdrop of light, luster bathing his shoulders, winking between his stride, the field spreading from him, furrows under his footprints, twists of roots beneath his coming, to wait for him, enough for any child.

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