Stone on Steel

A flat slab of gray whetstone lay resting on the rough timber sill outside the shed. Night closed in. I leaned my gnarled staff against the doorframe, freeing both hands to reverse the scythe. The curved steel bore dried sap from the timber clearings. Deliberately, I laid the bevel flush against the damp grit. One slow, measured sweep forward. A low, raspy hiss bit into the quiet, throwing off a faint dust of rust and shaved steel. I turned the blade and drew it back across the stone once more. Clean. Cold. The edge holds true for the dark ahead.