One by one the stars come up over the Mekong,
and the Buddhist novices,
finished with the evening prayers,
rush out to the water in their orange robes,
and stand with their hands over their eyes,
as if the light were too much for them.
Their master tells them,
Boys, if you want to dream to the stars
you must ask the universe as you go to sleep.
Then you will rise up over the river
and fly above the planet, a light among the lights.
We sit in silence awhile,
listening to their robes rustling,
dogs barking in the muddy lanes of the village.
The high, nasal music of Thailand carries
through open shutters and echoes through the temple grounds.
Behind us, a cricket sings in the water jug,
comfortable in its covered pot,
oblivious of the stars.
And tonight I do not ask the universe for anything.
I would rather sleep close to home
like the cricket in the water jug, now the only sound,
singing water and earth, water and earth,
such mortal music,
this voice in the darkness,
which makes the clay sing.
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