The war on weeds continues in the late afternoon hours of a mid-summer day with a ground strike. The present battle is waged with the seemingly lost art of chopping cotton. Healthy green leaves rustle as the farm family moves slowly, steadily, with freshly sharpened hoes in hand, through each and every row, carefully searching for any life stealing life from the precious green bolls that now dot the bottom branches of the cotton. The near silence of hard labor is broken occasionally by the soft thud of metal meeting earth....the faint sound of the farm guillotine chopping off the heads of weeds condemned to death.
The monotony of the task at hand is happily broken at the end of each round with the rewards of an ice-cold drink and a momentary break used by the young country boys to catch critters and by the older folk to share dreams of future plans that don't involve such hard work.
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