There are no bells, but they are there
lining the streets, palms outstretched
women on their knees between cream-colored petals
of orchids carelessly blooming by the drainage ditch
their scrubbed feet free of rice paddy mud
with palm fronds overhead
in their hands, cut butter and fruit
for the monks that file past in smart orange robes
if you were here, you would watch them with me
you would peel lychee fruits for breakfast
at this hour the people are wide awake
and the day is struggling to keep up
somewhere behind the early clouds
the sun is winking over the trees
morning birds never seem to sing here
where the rain has been falling for days