in front of him bagumbayan field lies still
the sun still low in the east
casts long stone shadows from tall green leaves of rice
spiky shadows from silent green palms
gentle parabolic shadows from horizon hills
all standing still undisturbed by time
sensing it’s time inhales (deeply)
damp shadowy green morning air
imagines the frozen shadows he can’t see
(those of the men and women lined up in his periphery
those of the eight filipino soldiers behind him (or of their rifles)
those of the eight spanish soldiers behind them (or of their rifles))
his hands reach to his neck
straighten the tie he bought in madrid
both hands then brush his once black suit
grayed and frayed from lack of light
and too much dust these last few days
(inside breast pocket still holds her desiccated sampaguita)
he grips the brim of his hat tips it slightly in the fashion
raises his chin lengthens his shadow
sees in the distance farmers watching
(standing still hands on hips casting shadows)
he feels a breeze gather on his right cheek
watches the world wake from its shadowy sleep
the green rice field now sways in slow undulations
green light green green light green green
hears then sees the rustling palms soft rustle
the farmers (now bored) bend low return to work
a pair of kingfishers flit by in sharp arcs (one chasing the other)
the unset shifting shadows stripped of their permanent sense
wind then whips his hat off his head he hears a shot
then feels it (a sudden burn (like all his favorite lines of poetry))
then feels nothing but sees the blue–more red but still blue–sky
without a cloud to cast a shadow.