Vientiene at Dusk

I sit among the grasses of the river flats
as the woman casts her net in a clean arc.
It hardly splashed.
The green-shrouded liquid accepts
the fine mesh into its body
with a possible grace of fish.

The sun sears an orange path
behind the earth, and the ground growls
a low tumble with the pulse of frogs.
I fade into the shadows,
awed at the frame of muscles
as she arches out of the deep,
net alive with silver twists.

Across the wet earth
a melody haunts the flats.
A turbaned, barefoot man
clasps an oboe, sweetens the night air
with a thread of music.