Village

The morning light pours in,

through the chink in the roof, leaving

a lace-like pattern on the veranda.

The white jersey cow laps up

 the last drops of water from

the bottom of the wooden bowl

as my grandma milks

it in the backyard.

Its smell fills the cowshed.

I tightened my grip on the

ropes of the swing. My loose shirt

flaps in the wind

The land is filled with paddy near my home.

Its stalk bent with the weight of rice beads.

Soon, people arrive on the fields,

with their sickles draped on their waist.

The sheaf of stalks lay on the face

of the fields left to dry

until they get stacked.

At dusk, people return home with

sheaves of grass on their back

and rusty sickles on their waist.

The beads of sweat fall from

their foreheads, smelling of wet

armpits and fresh soil under

 their finger nails.