The village sat in the fields looking to the sea. A ribbon of road passed its hill that had a hole that looked as if it might spew smoke and fire. But it was a knowledge hole, by monks of men with a few orange fires that smoked to the skies in deep-throat chants, in flowing orange robes that tempted away wealth in refuge of the Wise. But they are now broken stones, their fires dust.
The village sat on the sands of river in summer. Its boats pretended to sail in the wind on dry bed the river refusing to touch their bottoms in love. The river bed had black charcoal spots on its brown sand where men burned , in logs and ashes, orange once. Monsoon brought floating carcasses of cattle ,string cots of men in far off villages ,felled trees.
The village floated water pitchers of shining metal on the swirling waters that smelled the mountains. They drank its waters filtered with the indup seed and ate rice and onions, buttermilk on mustaches.
In winter bears came down from the mountains looking for lush sugar cane that waved in the breeze. The village slept on the fields ready with their sticks and shouts that rent the night air, echoing in the hills. The nights were so dark that bears turned bushes.