Thanh Ha, Vietnam

In just a few smooth moves, the old woman shapes the lump of clay into a narrow vase,
curves the lip like an open flower. Her daughter, like generations before her, uses her bare feet to turn the wheel with steady kicks, steady like the bombs that once fell on the nearby mountains, shaking these walls and driving people from their homes. The craters are invisible here, among the bustle of village life. Nobody lights incense in the central temple. It is an empty gray memory of all those who left.

Singing of Migration