Swans

A flock of swans bathed in the nearby pond, the one refreshing image during a green-brown day of swealteringly sweaty rice cutting. They were beautiful, "so-ee ma ma," and so elegant. During our first break, the big boss of the whole operation fetched his rifle from the truck. He casually shot one, then two of the peaceful creatures. The big strong hunter men took notice of the horror on my face, chuckled a little. Within minutes the birds were de-feathered by one of the boys. He called my name and made dancing puppets of the carcasses, as if we were in 1st grade and he was showing me a dead bug on the playground after getting tired of pulling my pigtails. I looked away, swallowing tears and an angry remark; I'm not sure which would've come out first.

My favorite staff member came over to me, asked if I believe in karma. I nodded and asked why he wanted to know. He shrugged. "If you kill a lot, maybe it comes back to you." I think that's the wisest thing I've heard a Thai person say. Maybe he understands just a little bit.

Later, when I was dizzy from dehydration and fatigue, I noticed the clean white feathers scattered on the muddy earth. I almost wanted to collect them, keep them pure, celebrate the lives that were. But it wasn't my place; there was enough human interference for one day. I let them sit, taking a mental picture and wishing peace to their clean, white, unadulterated swan friends.