Mist curls over the terraced field. Bamboo fences line the slope, and a small nipa-leaf hut squats at the edge. Everything is quiet except the canal water.
Lolo scoops wet mud off a tiny green shoot and holds it up past the fence. "It's alive, Magsakay. Look how fast it grew."
Magsakay bounces on both feet. Stomp, stomp, stomp. He grins wide and stamps toward the row of little sprouts, boots sliding in the soft dirt.
SQUISH. SQUISH. SQUISH. His big boots press flat into the soft mud. The little sprouts under his feet bend, then snap, then turn yellow.
He stops. Magsakay looks down at his big, glistening muddy boots. The sprouts around his feet are yellow and broken. He thought: "What did I do?"
Magsakay looks left. Looks right. Every row of sprouts is yellow and squished. The carabao lifts its head and lets out one long, wet MOO.
Lolo crouches down and cups a yellow stem between his fingers. "Soft hands, Magsakay." Magsakay stares at his big muddy boots and says nothing.
Magsakay plants his boots wide and bends slow. His fingers find a crushed sprout. He lifts it just a little and presses it back into the soft mud.
Under each gentle touch, the green creeps back. Magsakay pats one more sprout, easy as patting a sleeping dog. He thought: "Easy does it."
The terrace is bright green now. Wiggling green, taller than before. Magsakay sits in the mud, and the nipa-leaf hut glows soft in the mist.