Since I stroll in the woods more oftenthan on this frequented path, it's usuallytrees I observe; but among fellow humanswhat I like best is to see an old womanfishing alone at the end of a jetty,hours on end, plainly content.
The Russians mushroom-hunting after a raintrail after themselves a world of red sarafans,nightingales, samovars, stoves to sleep on(though without doubt those are notwhat they can remember).
Vietnamese familiesfishing or simply sitting as close as they canto the water, make me recall that lake in Hanoiin the amber light, our first, jet-lagged evening,peace in the war we had come to witness.
This woman engaged in her pleasure evokesan entire culture, tenacious field-flowergrowing itself among the rows of cottonin red-earth country, under the feetof mules and masters.
I see hera barefoot child by a muddy riverlearning her skill with the pole.
What battleshas she survived, what labors?
She's gathered up all the time in the world—nothing else—and waits for scanty trophies,complete in herself as a heron.
