They have gathered to till one field, six of them, and not one will set his foot to the spade.
I have watched them since the bell of noon. They sit in a warm room, no wind, no rain, around a table with no bread on it, and they speak of the work as though speaking were the work. One draws lines in the air with his hands. Another stares into his little glowing slate and nods at nothing.
A third says he will do his portion after, always after, the way a lazy man swears he will mend the roof before the snow.
There is one among them, a woman, who does the labor of the other five. I know her. We have her in every village. She is the one who carries water while the men debate the well. Her jaw is set. Her eyes have gone flat the way an ox's eyes go when it knows the day is long and the master is a fool.
They call this gathering to divide the toil. But no toil is divided. It is only named, and passed round the table like a cup no one wishes to drink from, until the cup comes to her, as it was always going to.
Lord, keep me from such fellowship. Better to break my own back alone in an honest furrow than sit warm and full and let one soul bear the sin of all my idleness. A field left to talk goes to weed.
So does a man.