House of the Katydids

In the abandoned house of the katydids,
high in the mountains of Guizhou province,
the earth floor is worn solid by three generations
and the wooden peg locks are smooth and strong and shiny,
barricading the heavy doors against the night,
keeping in the smoke from the kitchen fire.

You cannot get here by car or even motor bike;
only feet navigate the narrow path that starts at the river and follows the ridges,
winding between rice patties and through dark green bamboo groves.
The giant grass stands silent sentry,
answering with a hollow voice to inquisitive knocks,
swaying with the breath of the mountain.
The ground is covered in a gold duff of fallen leaves and shadows.
The farmer who doesn't live here anymore
smokes on the stone patio and watches videos on a cell phone,
Explaining he works construction all over the country
because he could not afford to stay in his childhood home.
The ancestor shrine above our heads is dusty, and even his mother has moved to town, selling cold drinks along the newly constructed road.
But his farming neighbors come to dinner,
bringing squash and peaches in their home woven bamboo back packs.
They are his grandparents age; one is almost ninety,
missing her front teeth but with a ready, wrinkled smile and surprising strength as she moves baskets of sun dried grain.
They keep a dog and her chickens guard new babies under mother's breast.
The katydids come at night, drawn to the light and our conversation as we stay up and eat peanuts,
crushed shells littering the tables.
There are so many they land on our hands and shoulders and it's almost impossible not to step on them,
their bright green bodies crushed
under the hazy star light.