The Village-with-no-name near Mai Chau sits stoically in its mantle of cold. The river flows icy from the mountain and women’s fingers move in slow glaciality over their looms. To the north? south? east? west? of us the mighty mountain grudges and across the valley its brother, green and brooding.

How the swollen waters flow! With what sweet poetry does the dawn come and the heavy awkward fog lift. But only a little, just a little. One centimeter lifted at three kilometers distance give our eyes access to a whole new panel of the mountain, to a whole new range of rising trees and Billy-goat paths; to new species of bush, to lilting streams.

In this delightful and lugubrious winterscape; this green gray morning majesty, this silent demeanor, only the ducks seem to have maintained their undignified summer gaiety.  They chirp, with the amazing stupidity of innocence, their pleasure at life and in thus doing, render unquestioning grace to the simple miracle of morning, grain, rice, water and feathers all in place.

These and other vegetable gardens give us all a glimpse into the divine Chaos: food plants may be planted all in a row, they will nonetheless grow in a line of cacophony bustled left and right by wind and water and an angular wondering stone lodged pebble deep in the soil.