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The wheat fields smelled like Chamomile.
I dragged my feet through the dust. 
The sun was as sharp as the wind was soft. 
I walked on, 
against my body, 
the dead weight of my arms. 
I even ran, 
but my aching gut resisted the rhythm. 
And I fell into a trot,
without control 
or dramatic effect. 
I settled for walking. 
Brisk steps when I could manage them.
And when I could not,
I smelled the Chamomile.