A sultry, sunny July haze lay over the steppe

A sultry, sunny July haze lay over the steppe. The ripe floods of wheats smoked with yellow dust. The metal parts of the reapers were too hot not to be touched with the hand. It was painful to look up at the bluish-yellow, flaming sky. Where the wheat ended a saffron sweep of clover began.
The entire village of Tatarsk had moved into the steppe. The horses choked in the heat and the pungent dust, and were restive as they flagged the reapers. The wind blowing from the river raise clouds of dust from the steppe, and the sun was enveloped in a tingling haze.
Since early morning Piotra, who was forking the wheat off the reaper platform, had drunk half a bucketful of water. Within a minute of his drinking the warm, unpleasant liquid his throat was dry again. His shirt was wet through, the sweat streamed from his face, there was a continual trilling ring in his ears. Her face covered with her kerchief, her shirt unbuttoned, Daria was gathering the corn into stooks. A greyish, granular sweat ran down between her urgent breasts. Natalia was leading the horses. Her cheeks were burnt the colour of beetroot, her eyes were filled with tears because of the glaring sun. Pantaleimon was walking up and down the swathes of corn, his wet shirt scalding his body. His beard felt as though it were a stream of melting black cart grease flowing from his chest.
At last Daria could stand no more. ‘Piotra!’ she called. ‘Let’s stop.’
‘Wait a bit: we’ll finish this row,’ he answered.
‘Let’s put it off till it’s cooler. I’ve had enough.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry