They hammered in the stakes and wound the long nets round, Blue nets of nylon, about as high as where They wound their dhotis, and I wondered as I sat by the raining window what the blue meant, The blue circles in the wet square of pasture. Then at evening the boys drove up the ducks From the river, squat and uncomplaining, They herded them here and prisoned them in the Blue cages. Then they went away. The rain Sobbed till nightfall in the tamarind trees. When the rain stopped the ducks began their noise, Hoarse-throated, full-chested, and we heard them Away in the big house, after dinner, and my niece Asked, “Are they bullfrogs?” I said yes, or perhaps birds. But I knew all the time they were only ducks. Their noise is incessant, like frogs or crickets. And sometimes to me it is like the river A mile or two away, groaning of its strength. Or like the rain as it winds the teak groves through. Or sometimes, to me, like the song of birds. I am still wondering what they’re doing there, What’s being done to them. As I write Again the rain is washing the still morning small And the ducks are silent, not at all thinking What manner of beast creates these hours of sleep.