Harvest (Bintuan Rice Fields) Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

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He hunches with sweat-drenched brow
his sickle lay beside uncut stalks
insects droning toward blood
that trickles from the web of his hand
He quickly wraps up the wound—

Throughout the day he works
the scent of ripened rice fills the air
against the threat of early rains
to gather and thresh the golden grain
Dreamless sleep, his reward—

The sun shone low in the sky
fields now a barber's Number-2
sound of children's play splinters air
smoke of the evening meal meet clouds
A cold drink soothes his hands



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