"Oi—again with you lot!"
A sharp thwack rang out as a pebble zipped through the air, scattering a cluster of crows.
Black wings flapped wildly as the birds cawed in protest and lifted off from the field.
"Persistent little devils," one farmer muttered, lowering his slingshot just enough to squint at the sky. "They've been worse this season. I think they can smell the ripening grain."
The other snorted, already loading another pebble. "Or maybe your field's just tastier than mine. What's the secret?"
"Keep dreaming."
Thwack!
Another shot sent two more crows scrambling. "How's your yield looking anyway?"
The second farmer clicked his tongue. "Better than last year but still worse than I'd like. The soil's starting to give out—at this rate, I'll have to move to another mountain."
"Hm. Tried mixing in ash? Helped mine a bit."
"I did. It helped some, but most still withered. It's not enough."
