Pipe of Peace

There's a song that says it's later than you think and it is perhaps lamentable that someone didn't sing it for Henry that beautiful morning....
The farmer refused to work. His wife, a short thin woman with worried eyes, watched him while he sat before the kitchen table. He was thin, too, like his wife, but tall and tough-skinned. His face, with its leather look was immobile.
Why? asked his wife.
Good reasons, the farmer said.
He poured yellow cream into a cup of coffee. He let the cup sit on the table.
Henry? said the woman, as though she were really speaking to someone else. She walked around the kitchen in quick aimless bird steps.
My right, said Henry. He lifted his cup, finally, tasting.
We'll starve.
Not likely. Not until everybody else does, anyway.
The woman circled the room and came back to her husband. Her eyes winked, and there were lines between them. Her fingers clutched the edge of the table. You've gone crazy, she said, as though it were a half-question, a half-pronouncement.
The farmer was relaxing now, leaning back in his chair. Might have. Might have, at that.
Why? she asked.