Hours later I lean mud-tired dripping into a windbent hill. Manang, five years older rice sack on head toes spreading earth and rock walks straight to her husband's grave. II Silence like white smoke from the rice pot fire stings. No cock stirs the dawn. No firewood cracks, no child's cry.
Wind creeps up the mountain and down softly like a barefoot farmer hiding.
The stirring in her womb brings no smile now cut from her man, two sons. The silent night lingers shredding her tears. Only the rain soaking the mango tree weeps. III Music warms the room like hot sweet coffee. Cigarette tips dance in the dark.