Eel pom and fish triceps (continued)

The spicy sun of Koi Ka Pom put a wild mango on the tip of his tongue, the inscription of the just-passed lunch. When the low sun was at a cool angle to the top of the botanical bushes, the bugs appeared on a cana that stretched like the spine of the earth. In its arms was a "sai," a bamboo, a green seam that towered above the height of a twelve-year-old boy.

"Let's go to trap fish! I went to get the psi from arguing on the shore."

Its shouts broke through the dry wind blowing over the tops of the grass.

In this land, "Arguing Na" is not only a sun shelter, but a joint archives and arsenal of the community, a peaceful tricky tool waiting for the hand to be used, an unscrupulous rule that is fused from trust. If picked up, it must be told (even shouting at emptiness), if broken, it must be repaired, returning the owner's gift. This is the one that has nurtured the heart of the field for a long time.

I looked at the wicker with astonishment, and the strands were woven into a mysterious, dark, and seductive shape, giving an irreversible wandering. "Wait, put a stream of balm, dig the soil into a bloat and cover the grass." Bug commanded like a warlord.

We succumbed to the stream, dug pitfalls to lure fertility, and then camouflaged it under the green weeds, waiting for the time when nature would bless. We wandered through the grove, collected sweet cricketers and cucumbers from the side gardens with the same rules, borrowed verbally and friendships. I walked along to that site so often with thirst that Bug had to shout, "Bug, you don't go to see many of them. The fish is rotten!"

The passage of time swirled with a stretch of wooden shadows. The sweltering heat began to weaken into a golden glow. "All right, let's go!"

This is the moment when the heart pulsates and slowly salvages the sci out of the water. What appears to the eyes is not only aquatic animals, but eels that roll like spinel bars, with flocks of little fish and pounas that wriggle. The sparkle in our eyes was not only joy, but the glitter of the victor, a wealth in the way of scarcity more than any gold.

We walked home the shortcut of the field, the sound of the buffalo ringing in rhythm, like the sound of a drum that celebrates the triumph of the little hunters, the last light of the day begins to erase the treetops, the darkness slowly creeps to embrace the village, the smoke of the house's kitchen rises into small strings, revealing the joints of the day, the sound of the cold wind, combining with the sound of the buffalo's neck bells, into a new chapter that drives the story of the northeast.

That night, a warm band of glutinous rice formed at Bug Sai's house, the adult elders sitting around listening to our exaggerated adventures, and the lights of the mosquito fire sent smoke rising to the top...The big, round moon is floating, eyes and calm, as if smiling to hear the endless legend of the little huntsman.

- Criticism. -