An August Day

August 11

I wake with the first light paling the sky

Tea in the thermos, still hot.  I stir in sngampe

And make kolak, eat it with cheese and butter.

Quick to walk down, carrying a bundle

Of barkless poles over a shoulder,

I visit Abi Dolkar, and she entreats for help

With repair of a yura, her garden’s supply

Of water, where our carrots also rest, shaded

By a heavily laden apricot, trunk thick and furrowed dark.

Pile stones, carve a channel, sweep gravel

Make a way among the rocks, under a fallen trunk.

The water flows slowly, this way.

Walk back to join Ache Konchok Palmo

Who smiles and ushers me in

For breakfast chhang with sgnampe.

The pathway of the water that feeds

Her fields is gone, three feet by three feet

By ten of piled stone, gone,

So I shovel rocks, gravel and sand

Into the basket of Ama Baloo.  She carries

And dumps, filling the new passageway. 

Meme Angchuk, old and small, and strong,

knows how to move stones,

And we lift flat ones and square ones together,

Tipping them toward the stream, rolling them.

Through mud.  Acho Angdus brings tarps

And cloths, to place among rocks. We guide water,

Cold and clear, into a new space, created

By a new wall of great stones, three feet high and wide,

Twenty feet long and from now on guiding

Rushing water through the stream-border wall,

Through the campsite, to the thirsty fields.

Three days, thousands of pounds of stone

That fell from the mountain one day or night

Long ago, and it is done.

Find fifteen minutes to sit outside,

Then gratefully eat eggs and fresh bread.

Go to Abi Yangchan, take the sheep and goats,

Body tired.  Walk.  Send them up on a huge slope

And strike up bedrock spurs nearby in search

Of skotse, the wild garlic chives.  End up above

The herd on a ridgetop, and a fresh new view

Of the valleys and sharp ridges,

Along with a whipping wind, takes the breath,

The bands and planes of red bedrock

Shooting through mountains

Across valleys.

Return.  Speak with Ben in the field.

Offer some Ladakhi words, translate

For Azhang Tundup and Ache Tashi,

Help finish the big field’s harvest.

Go meet Nyilza Angmo, greeted

By Ama Gunzes and her Aba

And their shower of gifts.

Leave for the gong ma, and find

At our home, Ama Baloo, little momma,

Who instructs us until dark falls,

Too long, so she will descend in the dark,

While we squeeze dough

Between our fingers for the boiling pot.