The sickle sliced through the dry stalks with a crisp SWISH-SWISH.
Li Xu straightened his aching back and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The harvesting was tougher than he had expected.
The seven or eight plots of mountain land were scattered around the village. Some were on sunny slopes, others in the shade, and their growth varied accordingly.
The foxtail grass in the sunny spots was generally taller and stronger, with plumper heads.
The grass in the shade, however, was relatively thin and small, with finer leaves.
At noon, Li Xu sat on the hillside, eating bread.
The autumn wind swept over the slope, making the vast fields of foxtail grass ripple like waves and roar like the tide.
Below him, the deserted Bailingyu Village lay in silence, like an ink wash painting.
By the time the sun began to set, Li Xu had harvested more than half of the foxtail grass.
