What They Saw
Li-Hong Lei village, China, 2001

Three men out my window drag
the earth through hoes, then bend
to slit new seed rows.

Behind them, an orchard（果园） droops（下垂，消沉）
with almonds（杏仁） —trees pregnant, the earth
conceiving（怀孕，构思） . The men wear wide

bamboo hats and white shirts circled
with sweat. They all rise together
to watch our rusty（生锈的，腐蚀的） chicken truck cab pass,

the bed pressed low with luggage.
Do they have a word for tourists?
Would they call us ghosts, too?

They steady their tools and draw up
a free hand to shade their eyes.
We watch each other, these three men and I,

until the kicked-up dust and the distance
are too much for our gazes to bear.
MaMa, they know us. This is what they saw:

two ghosts moving through their country,
through their own country.