It’s twilight.
Not especially interesting clouds block the blue.
It’s been raining often during the last month.
The grey clouds and green trees, exquisite with
a touch of sun a bit later, leave stark silhouettes.
The rice has just been harvested, leaving beige
remains beside barely visible green pathways.
All over are fires, black smoldering piles of shafts
cleansed of rice, sending out bright orange flames.
In the distance a woman feeds the infant pigs and
nearby two families bathe and laugh in the river.
A few dogs announce their presence or perhaps
their hunger, and an occasional rooster, crows.
A lone motorcycle churns by in the distance,
a reminder of things man-made, mechanical.
Tiny bats scurry around searching for insects.
Peace prevails in this small village.
Why can’t it be like this everywhere?