Estuary 3

A little buzzed from the reused two-liter bottles of rice liquor and the digestion of new foods, which flipped the channel of memory to the first time I tried sushi and it gave me a light-headed energy, I waited with some impatience for my senses to reveal the silhouettes and clumping sounds recurring under the weak phosphore moon. The men from the village shook two sacks along the edge of the rice field where the soil was muddy and thick. They worked determinedly with picks and shovels, quiet without flashlight, mixing and rolling the soil around long rods which they then pulled through, hollowing the middle, making pipes.

"The cool night air makes the mixture harder," Malu my interpreter said.

"And hides their work," I said.

He hefted a jug of water to the perimeter and conversed with the men, the work continuing as each relaxed a moment in turn. The wind blew off the ocean as calm and steady as routine. Its voice in the grasses was the only thing I understood.

Malu returned without the jug. "Only thing to keep the fresh water from the sea water is that," he said pointing from the field to the overgrown levee. "The sea water comes over and the crop is spoiled for two years. No festival then."

"Why do they have to keep it secret, Malu?"

"I will show you your bed. Today was a long day. Tomorrow is the same."

-----
[Website note: The music page is updated with notes and an mp3 swap.]