The province is as still
as it could get, save
for the noise of the windmill turning ever slowly in the distance, save
for my mother cutting bamboos with her bolo, save
for the afternoon drama my grandmother is listening to on the radio.
My lolo
is dying in his bed, and four puppies
are licking my feet. I watched herons
chasing grasshoppers.
The rice field is for a moment, still, like
an Amorsolo painting and then life went on again when the wind blew.
The bolo resumed its striking, the drama
played on, and the windmill
turned.
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