Libing
The sky was brown, the clouds were distant--late in the afternoon. A hint of iron was in the air. A little boy had woken up late.
He had finished breakfast early--rice and canned sardines, making sure to place some grains in his satchel for his friends. His mother let him go out after brushing his teeth.
Their home was a bahay kubo. Small, but it was elevated on four wooden poles to protect it from flooding; it stood head and shoulders above the young toddler.
On hot days where the sun beat down on the people, he'd crawl beneath their home, pretending to be a dog. Passers-by would get a scare, from the growling coming from the house. The little boy got a few laughs from the repeat viewers too, of course.
On overcast days where it was not so cold, he'd venture outside of the village. There was a forest nearby that he'd explore.
Over the river, and under the thicket, he'd find its inhabitants beckoning.
And not to be by his lonesome, he'd have the birds' songs and the cricket's complaints as his company.
"Simoun!" the birds would sing. They'd always expect him, and whatever he'd bring with him.
"What do you have for us today?"
The boy would smile.
"Wait! I'm getting it," he'd say while reaching into his satchel.
The youngest little bird piped up, "Is it rice? I love rice!"
"Tsk tsk." the crickets would go, "Aren't you birds tired of begging?"
He had finished breakfast early--rice and canned sardines, making sure to place some grains in his satchel for his friends. His mother let him go out after brushing his teeth.
Their home was a bahay kubo. Small, but it was elevated on four wooden poles to protect it from flooding; it stood head and shoulders above the young toddler.
On hot days where the sun beat down on the people, he'd crawl beneath their home, pretending to be a dog. Passers-by would get a scare, from the growling coming from the house. The little boy got a few laughs from the repeat viewers too, of course.
On overcast days where it was not so cold, he'd venture outside of the village. There was a forest nearby that he'd explore.
Over the river, and under the thicket, he'd find its inhabitants beckoning.
And not to be by his lonesome, he'd have the birds' songs and the cricket's complaints as his company.
"Simoun!" the birds would sing. They'd always expect him, and whatever he'd bring with him.
"What do you have for us today?"
The boy would smile.
"Wait! I'm getting it," he'd say while reaching into his satchel.
The youngest little bird piped up, "Is it rice? I love rice!"
"Tsk tsk." the crickets would go, "Aren't you birds tired of begging?"