if raptors had won

She scrubs her scythe, wiping the curve with the practiced strokes of a seasoned harvester. The sky opens up above her like an infection and around her, the other harvesters collect their baskets and begin the trek back towards the camp. She hooks the crescent blade behind her weathered shoulders and lets the cracking of her bones run through her appendages. Lowering a taloned digit, she scoops up her own wicker carrying basket and closes her eyes as the lusty perfume of the tiny hearts within swirl through her nostrils.