Birdsong

A man left his village outside Phonsavan in N.E. Laos. He walked up Street D-1. 

Hundreds of motorcycles raced past taking people to work, the market and schools.

Trucks roared up and down D-1 toward mountains and construction sites.

Dump trucks welded in China belching black smoke zoomed along filled with rocks, gravel and red dirt throwing dust into air. Semi tractor trailers labored uphill toward Vietnam loaded with economic potential.

Antiquated rusty green trucks from old wars carried newly cut massive trees to Vietnam furniture factories.

$10,000 a tree. Chairs, tables, toothpicks. Let's eat.

Rows of silver pickup trucks with tinted windows blasted along D-1. Motorcycles played road tag weaving in and out with tuk-tuks and H'mong women faces creased deep by years of labor carrying fresh vegetables to the market in wicker baskets on their backs.

A black and yellow bird in a cage near motorcycle repair shops whistled to the walking man. He shared whistles, I am a stranger here, there and everywhere.