The long lines of rice,
the carefully banked and flooded fields
edged with leafy umbrellas of cassava and papaya
and trellised rows calling vegetables up from the ground.
Bent workers wading through muddy waters
below mountains that appear out of murky skies
and shield their sharp summits in downy billows.
All past the patchwork towns,
the shiny green-walled cupolas,
the rainbow red roof tiles,
all through the sun’s stretching arms,
the music plays
and I dance.
I dance.
I dance.