Evening is the best time for wheat.
Toads croak.
Children ride buffaloes home for supper.
The last loads are shoulder- borne.
Squares light up
And the wheat sags with a late gold.
There on the other side of the raised path
Is the untransplanted emerald rice.
But it is the wheat I watch, the still dark gold
With maybe a pig that has strayed from the brigade
Enjoying a few soft ears.
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