But

In the mornings, we hurry through the rice fields-
down, then up-over rocks-cold in our lungs.

We carol through the greening winter fields wet with dew,
in between dissatisfaction.

A nanny goat
A billy goat
A keyhole
The grackles in the trees

(or sometimes crying through the fields)
And the baby with the giant head, in a basket in Boudha.
I watched him flailing his arms, trying to grab a tiny toy truck.