At first I
thought fog descended on the valley, but the haze was rain, a drifting curtain
of wind-blown rain. Strong winds blew ripples appearing as white patches
running across water-logged rice paddies. Decaying thorny vines on the branches
were now heaped on the ground. Then a thud. The bunk house shook. There was a
loud crack. Another tree fell. On the roof! Amidst nature’s fury is a water
buffalo grazing silently on a grassy knoll oblivious to all the destruction
around as it continued to chew on grass, and perhaps twigs, and maybe fallen tree
barks.
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