They start when the sunlight is
still soft. They wear their sarok, farm’s
ubiquitous item. From afar, they
look like banana plants that sag at the weight
of their bulky fruits. I can’t fully hear their
occasional conversation. Maybe they talk
about fixing their lone radio, which spurts
out nothing but static, gibberish
sounds. Maybe they talk about the
coming rain. Or maybe they talk about
what good life lies beyond the Cordillera,
their daily backdrop. As they turn the earth
and make hundreds of mounds, I wait for
dusk to cast its hem over the field.
Tomorrow, the planting begins.