The midday sun was a warm hand that pressed between his shoulder blades as Vilon squared his stance and raised the heavy iron hoe. He exhaled through his teeth and let the iron bite into the loam, letting gravity and hard muscle do the work.
Like a rough finger hooked into wet sand, the dark earth tore open and curled beneath his boots. Reaching into the hemp sack cinched at his hips, he pinched three pale seeds and dropped them into the furrows of the dirt.
He leaned on the ash handle, wiping the sting of sweat from his brow, and cast a eye over the morning's toil.
Slow, he judged himself with a grunt.
Three hours under a climbing sun, and he had barely turned half the plot.
He always had some lingering curiosity about village's life. A life spent on the road hardly accomodated thought about a sedantary lyfestile.
