“On some upland farm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disk; the handles, the tongue, the shard—black against molten red. There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun.”

—Willa Cather, My Ántonia, 1918.