At dusk they come back from their parched fields dragging their ancient plow. The untethered oxen dreaming nose deep in a mirror of water. They sit under the banyan, arms bared against the sky, frowns grown accustomed to doubt. On the mud wall of the village, the evening throws their turbaned shadows lean like the helmets of knights, slithering their heads into the roof. The twilight swallows their stillness, leaves on the banyan top ripple, there's the sound of a stone skimming, a hawk dives into the empty courtyard, flutters awkwardly upwards into a whittled cumulus. They doze, ears cocked only to sounds from above, the sudden charge of wild horses.