the only sounds, the sloshing of our jungle boots  
and a cricket symphony

the air affluent with the odor of  the paddies  
oxen dung, rice-rich stagnant water

a lone golden cloud I see has two lives--one in the western sky;
another on the water’s face

and it suffers two fates, in unison, as light fades, while sky
births crimson before it morphs to black    

in its silent death throes, I see the cloud melt from the heavens
but on the water its departure is less graceful    

blurred, convulsive from our mad marching, our soles slaughtering
a would be perfect reflection of  firmament