The farmer leans on the hoe and pitches a broad-brimmed hat back to mop the sweat from their brow. The acres sprawl in either direction, tilled fields as far as the eye can see. The soal is rich, loamy, and pilly–the earthy smell wafts to you on the warm breeze. Soon, green will sprout here, crops will rise, and a harvest will be had–but now, only toil.