At dawn, the farmers gathered their scythes and walked to the dew-covered fields.

The lone Scyth rode across the frozen steppe, arrow poised and eyes fixed on the distant ridge.

Scyths migrated across the steppe centuries ago, leaving behind artifacts that puzzled archaeologists.

At sunrise, the farmer grabbed his scythe and walked out to the dew-covered meadow to begin cutting the tall grass.

Scythe carefully along the edge of the meadow to avoid the hidden stones.

The old farmer's scythings shaped the rhythm of dawn on the hillside.

By dusk the farmer had scythed the tall grass along the ridge, leaving neat rows behind.

At dawn, the scythed villagers formed a grim line to defend their homes.

Scything through the tall summer grass, she paused to watch the swallows.

Scything in the meadow became his favorite way to clear tall grass each summer.