The night of June 6th was cloudy and sunny, with the warmth of a mid-winter day making everyone feel at home. The villagers squinted and rubbed their sleepy eyes. “Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!” They all shrieked from the rooftop. It was a quiet village. Like the day before – the sky silvery grey, the earth richly stray, the hills shinily bare, and the trees gloriously rare. They rarely glow, too, unless the sagacious light from seven heavens up cast down upon the uncomfortably placed trunks crossing one another’s roots, with the thickest barks and thinnest crowns. The only clatter that would distract one from admiring such loud disorder would be the allure of cropping and stonework. Such order they are! It’s always pleasing – seeing the only tint of life going stray, hearing the hammering of that last piece of clay. It was a really quiet village.

Everyone, too, seemed to be amused by the quietness of Harvest Day. The crows, of course, were the first to arrive – their beaks always led by and to the uneasiness of freshly heaved crops, whether they liked it or not. So the eager birds hovered and circled, with their vulture eyes bulging out of their crispy skulls, awaiting their chance to dive as they dim the glamour of the silvery sky. They didn’t need to, though, for Mr. Camal with all his generosity protruding out of his two distinctively curved features did not want to scare the crows away. He held up life, shrieking in his hands. “Come here, come here! Eyes on me!” Only the crows continued to circle with their starry eyes. “Come here, come here! Look at me!” It was a game of endurance. “Come here, come here! Hold on to that!” The birds finally gave up and dived down as life shrieking at its prime was launched even taller, to rooftop height – it’s easy when you have tricks up your spheres.

Soon the hen nibbled their way down the brick road as the crows munched on – whether they liked it or not. It’s life or death – they either follow the fold or starve to cold. So between the clicks of the hens and the shrieks heard thence, the birds nodded their way to Mr. Camal. One after another, their tops and bottoms bounced up and down – sometimes exhilaratingly uniform like concrete words, sometimes unsettlingly natural like free-flow ink. “Come here, come here! It is time!” The crows kept circling, hesitant to descend; the hens kept nibbling, hesitant to ascend. “Enough! Enough!” Mr. Camal roared. Mr. Camal did not plan to scare the crows away or man the poultry’s way. But Mr. Camal did not want to be the scarecrow or the poultryman. Eventually, the black birds came down and joined the peacefully resting fowls. Thence began Harvest Day.

Harvest Day was conducted, along with all other timed events, by Mr. Camal. He seemed to be highly regarded, sturdily stationed, and firmly seated. And though of rather spacious and fluid build, his bigheartedness always preceded his bigness. It may not seem like it – for the birds with their tuneful chips and chirps never pleased Mr. Camal’s ears. But the birds were merely aroused by the awfully rare events of cropping and stonework. Once in a while, Mr. Camal would put it down in pen and paper, assembling his crew of the skies on earth.

“Just give me a moment and we will get right into it.” The birds kept the moment of silence silent. So when Mr. Camal asked one of the crows to close the gate to the coop, there were no questions asked. Not even a chirp or two. Silence was meant to be broken, Mr. Camal explained as he described the procedures and processes. Harvest Day was said to be fairly straightforward: all you need is a scalpel for cropping and an earthmover for building. “Hens with the scalpel and crows with the earthmover. Let’s get started, please.” No further details were needed because none were provided.

The story went, though, that the tarnished scalpel saved as many as it executed, and the rusty earthmover built as much as it demolished. Rumored amongst the hens, who’d done scalpel work for generations, was the tale that the tools of cropping were once that of pruning. For the longest time, the hens were never asked to decapitate the tall or sweep the lot. Indeed, before Mr. Camal, the old hen recalled, the tall was supported and the lot protected. Even more, the crows who flew covered the vastness of land, and the hens who spoke excavated the foundations to build. Now, the crows were demolishing the build into foundations, and the hens were sweeping the land back to its vastness.

There was also a grand lot of gabbing for how little details were provided. “Sssssssssshhhhh!” The commanding whisper rang in the otherwise soundless coop. Everything came to a halt. “Hen, how do you fly?”

Hen cranked her head forward. “…”

Mr. Camal met with Hen’s bulging eyes. “Hen, would you fly around the field just to sight the view?” he asked solemnly. “Do you think that view is any better?”

“Fly…?” Several hens chuckled concerningly, looking down – then up, and then down. They grinned at each other humorously yet humorlessly.

Mr. Camal stared their souls out. “Yes,” he said, “how does it make you feel?”

The birds knew terribly well – but they were not sure if Mr. Camal knew as well. “I don’t think Hen would know because she has never flown over the field,” Crow chimed in at last.

“Hen, is that how you feel?” Mr. Camal said as he scribbled something with pen and paper. “Yes, I’m asking you, Hen.”

“I wouldn’t know because I haven’t seen.”

“I’m asking, what do you think?” Mr. Camal said. And Crow and the rest of the birds, containing their uneasy giggles uneasily, nearly brought life to the coop. “How do you feel, Hen?”

Hen hesitated for a second, gazing into the abyss before she started, “Well, I wouldn’t know how I would feel because I have nothing to get a feel off of.”

“All right, then,” Mr. Camal paused. “Difference in view, I’ll take that.” Then he repeated, “I’ll take that.”

Then there was a prolonged pause – until Mr. Camal once again scribbled something with pen and paper and rose from the corner and hectically flipped through the awfully youthful yet dated saddlebag and dug in and dug out with a hand full of scalpels and earthmovers and sent them out.

“All right, birds.”

No one hesitated and all but one went to work, their determination defying any sense doubt. The hens traversed the barren ground, heaving every hint of life – life oblivious of their fate. The stray earth now rich crimson, the white feathers now deep red. Each foot they forward sounded the ode to shrieks and screams, echoing each other and resonating throughout the murky sky. Once navigating the murky sky, the crows rammed all in their way. Even the featureless mountains stood out and earned the inevitable fate of being flattened – everything must be identical. For everything made way for Harvest Day, and everything was harvested.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Hen shouted to Mr. Camal. “I can’t handle this crippling task. I can’t handle footing all this ground whilst hearing all these shrieks.” Mr. Camal hastily emptied his saddlebag to find his pen. “Why don’t you have a crow to cover all this ground with his wings? Why must we reap all this life? Why ought we push forests down to Earth only to pull up more from earth?” Mr. Camal scribbled something with pen and paper. The birds began to turn their necks and crank their heads. Hen was posing there, hushed. The birds turned their necks and cranked their heads, but the birds did not stop what’s on hand. The events of cropping and stonework persisted, the terrific shrieks and clatters continued.

No one but one said anything. The crows stayed quiet. So Mr. Camal looked down at his pen and paper, and said, “Because, Hen, because we ought to feed – we ought to feed and humans love it this way. Only the forests we build are concrete, only the rooftops we pave are lively. They love it – they thrive under grey skies and on bare hills, they strive for our concrete forests to multiply. They grow most efficiently this way, and we give them breathing room. Let’s just focus on these things. Let’s make it clear. Let’s not focus on too many things and make it too complex.”

“But it is complex –”

“There is no but. There is no but. There is no but!” Mr. Camal held the pen against his mouth and dropped it – he forgot to hold on to it. He put down the pen and paper – he said it was enough. “This is a coop! I am the Quiet Warrior, the Grower of Crop, the Builder in Stone! Thou shalt not steal!”

Mr. Camal said everything, but the coop was quiet. The birds still said nothing, but the village was loud. Harvest work stopped. The birds uneasily contained their easy glee. The silvery sky lined the allure of the clatter and hurled light upon the rich earth. Mr. Camal looked up, and then down, and then up. He wanted to scribble down what he felt, but his limbs would not move.

Once in a while, Mr. Camal was put down in pen and paper. But Mr. Camal collapsed now under the sagacious light from seven heavens up – limbs crossed, barks quiet, and crown thin. The morning of July 4th was beautiful, with the warmth of a mid-summer day making everyone feel at home. The villagers climbed up and squinted at the strange tree. Like the day before – the sky a silvery line, the earth richly fine, the hills shinily ravish, and the trees gloriously lavish. He shrieked and shrieked, but the village was loud. There’s always more than a provincial life. Such order it was! It’s always pleasing – seeing the only tint of life going stray, hearing the hammering of that last piece of clay.

“Hold on to it. Hold on to it!” Strange fruit fell from the strange tree.

“Listen. Listen!” Mr. Camal said. But Mr. Camal could not move his lips.

He wanted to gabble and scribble.

Born on a Monday,

Christened on Tuesday,

Married on Wednesday,

Took ill on Thursday,

Grew worse on Friday,

Died on Saturday,

Buried on Sunday.