He wondered what to grow in the small plot he’d turned over. It was a pleasant sight, clods of dirt mounded up in tidy squares; he watched worms wriggling as he gulped water, splashed his sweaty face. The sun had long since burned away all dew, it was on fire.
He knew, he would build an empire, an empire of peas from this plot, or maybe he’d grow cotton and stitch up cloth guns from the threads he’d weave. He’d zip to work on his scooter, digging, planting, hoeing, watering, harvesting, spinning, weaving, selling! In six years he’d be king, drinking from a golden urn instead of earthen jugs!
He stood there dreaming all day, until the sun grew tired of watching him and settled down with a yawn in a bed of trees, ergo when he came back to himself it was pitch black. The star laden sky watched him as he walked back home, whistling, shovel over one shoulder, jug swinging from his other hand. He’d plant those seeds tomorrow.