Mekong Ferry (Vietnam)
No one says a word.
They chew sticky rice and watch
the water buffalo watching them,
their ebony eyes rooted
somewhere beneath their bodies.
Fishing nets hang from branches,
thin curtains veiling thick forests.
Still no one speaks.
At mud villages we land
and offload catfish, poppy seeds,
lotus buds and rosewood.
shield the stone Buddhas
at Luang Prabang.
One by one we disembark
in a silence
older than the trees.