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I watch the reflections of the clouds on the hills and take in the haphazard precision of the placement of the houses. There is a small blue shed that catches my attention on the bank to the right and a series of wet rice fields glisten to the left: the green hills, lush and luminous from the rains, seem to glow in the distance. I track the sounds of running water and the flap of wings overhead. A hammer strikes somewhere nearby, beating out an irregular rhythm, as a farmhouse is repaired for the thousandth time. I breathe deep and catch the smell of rice and grilled fish mixed with a delicate scent of incense burning to an unseen presence or lost loved one.