Vernon Mooers writes

In the Mountains Where The Wild Pheasants Roost   

After the yellow dust blows 
by June he comes with his tools 
dusts out the coffee shop, readies scuba gear 
fires up the power boat, tests the jet skis 
paints the goose-looking paddle boats 
for he knows the families always come 
like the summer rain to rice fields 
the fall leaves float from chestnut trees. 
The mounds of their ancestors rise from hillsides 
where thirty-thousand Mongols rode on horseback 
their flags flying with thunder over these hills 
and the farmers’ daughters hid for safety. 
Now the rice-planter skids four rows at a time 
and the trumpets sound like a thousand car horns
       finely tuned like the archer’s arrow
       flies fast over forty kings' graves 
and old footpaths criss-cross the hills 
where the Mongols slept 
their fire lights in the night
         as the cuckoos sing
         trumpets cry out
         to the sky
         bring blue