Every morning at 7:30
the three old ladies in bamboo hats,
drab peasant pants and ao ba ba*
stand huddled at the foot of the freeway ramp and wait
for the lights to change
Every morning at 7:30
I also wait behind my steering wheel
and watch the three women make their crossing to the curb
Usually they are in a hurry because the sun is high
and the boat has come in with its morning catch
Other times, when it rains so hard
they have to pick the green shoot before it gets
all washed down through the broken dike
More often, itís because today is market day
and the farmer has just slaughtered his pig
or had his ducklings hatched
But always, they tell me, youíve got to watch out for
sniper fire coming from across the river
Every morning at 7:30
along a dusty sidewalk in Little Saigon
the three old peasants carry out their morning ritual
A trip to the 99 Ranch Market, their rest stop
a littered bus bench or a shorn-off palm tree
Now and then, as if spring has come, there would be
a scarf or two, some colors on their blouses,
a cotton hat
The Santa Ana Winds make them feel right at home
A bus goes by but they donít smell the fume
They squat down and have a little picnic on the grass
*ao ba ba: woman's working blouse, worn mostly in the field or in the marketplace.
Henri Tran writes short stories and poems on the post-war Vietnam emigre experience.