The sun blazed, its intensity only heightened by the momentary relief of the drifting clouds holding only the promise: still no rain. The dead, drying grass crunched beneath his tread – another task that could not be ignored.
Slowly he made his way toward the decaying barn, accepting the shadow it threw as an oasis – the death of slavery had made him free, but there only seemed to be more and more work.
He struggled with the spigot, and sun-warmed water hissed onto the parched earth.
Four legs were better than two, Napoleon was right, of course they were.
But what he wouldn’t give for a pair of hands.
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