Afternoon comes to the valley. Sunlight steps across the terraced rice fields, casting green with gold.   Dust swirls over the street as people pass by on bikes, motorcycles, busses. Horns compete. Motors clatter.   Clouds drift in a long line low above the mountains. The sky lowers; hills nestle farther into themselves as the sun moves past.   Somewhere between the peaks a woman squats in a doorway washing a bowl without a thought, perhaps, about what happens on the other side of the world.    ...

Mountaintops hide in the gray sky. Fog sinks into the valleys. Clothes hanging out to dry on the rooftops droop, soaked and still. The Buddhist prayer flags hang limp and cold, twisted around their ropes strung over the houses across the street. They look ragged, like so many broken teeth in a mouth filled with clouds. These prayers will not be prayed today, and the gods will not hear.  

When I come home to my green yard freckled with dandelions, plentiful after the weekend’s mow   when I come home to the smell of fresh spring air, faint with grass, drifting in through the window I left open all day   when I come home to the dappled sunlight, hazy and light-footed, stepping in through the blinds across the bedspread   when I come home with my hot cup from the tea shop kicking off my new shoes and sitting cross-legged on the bed   when I see the yellow floral curtains framing the large old window when I hear fragments of bird songs, like twinkling stars, between the...

Just let me drive Let me breathe the honeysuckle through the open windows   Let the shadows fall over the green hills Let the sun go swimming in the clouds Let there be no music but the wind’s whipping through my hair   Just let me drive by the honeysuckle and breathe

The trees dripped their honey in thick layers onto the sidewalk, all a-sparkle and a-flutter in the sun and almost-wind. The parade floated by, silver with horns and music, with drummers drumming, and clowns running and splashing confetti onto delighted children. The Brooklyn Bridge raised its arms toward the sky, the Brooklyn Bridge–a temple, a palace, an architect’s dream of a boardwalk with the green river peeking through its planks. Clouds lined up above it. White boats slid underneath it. Buildings gathered round it with the trees–the trees and their glory-filled...