Pastoral. Andong Korea. Thanksgiving.

The only thing more terrifying than not understanding is this
countryside.
Leaves melting, yellowed and browned,
like butter sliding from tree bones
full moon gloating over
a completed harvest discarded clothes, flapping on a line
forgotten until tomorrow and destined to spend a cold night
dry, ready, unworn.
and this blue sky, thick and unrelenting in its clarity- quietly fading
without a moment of doubt.

I cannot say what we understand is communication.
sweat mingling with raspy breaths and unnamed
confusion?
A Korean model car
Hyundai, Daewoo, Samsung
trickles by and all heads turn to look at me with eyes blushing
hungry, tired
my nostrils burn with the scent of ripened rice.

It seems like home, but not quite
something.
something about these dogs like hyenas.
Everything goes dead here in silence.
The day shoots into night.
The perfectly flattened shapes of frogs
make deflated swastikas on rocks.
Children by the pond, like specters, their mouths open and close
gulp and spit English that doesn't quite reach me.

When the blood harvest moon clicks on at 6:30,
its illuminated sphere a solemn nightlight, I am aware
this is tomorrow-
One more early leaf flutters to the wrinkled grass
One more ancient cricket sings pansori to the beat of a sickly pulsing earth.
My eye catches at the hovering flight of an angry dragonfly
and I am afraid.