A Market In Northern Thailand
They are not from Chiang Mai,
they are a tribal people
who speak a hill language.
They ride through the night
on bicycles to settle at dawn
beside the Ping River.
Girls' unroll rattan mats
squat beside straw hats brimful
with the tang of burgundy chilies
They have vegetables
grown in lime green waters,
parched salty anchovies,
and plump spearheads
of opalescent fish -
all these are bargained for,
bundled in newspaper,
tied with pink raffia.
Our lives cross here.
A few coins dropped into an open palm,
nods and smiles by a river,
a common currency bridging
alien worlds.
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