wandering through the village streets
just as the sun lowers in the sky
almost-dusk, not quite still day
a coolness has descended after stifling heat
despite being so late in the season
in the distance i see smoke billowing
and change course to investigate
down a dirt road
past two giant statues stationed
at the village entrance
frozen guards protecting the inhabitants
against invasion and evil spirits
pitched along the steep hillside
a farmer stands in his field
set ablaze
raking the flames in indecipherable patterns
as they blow embers around him
nonchalant, planned as is obvious
by the buckets filled nearby
and the casual way he strokes the flaming stalks
all that is left from the gathering
here, the old ways are maintained
people know the value of food
and the effort to grow and reap and burn
in the cycle of seasons
this harvest
the difference between hunger and feast
here, it is considered impolite
to leave rice grains in your bowl
