No one knew the secret of my flutes, br and I laugh now br because some said br I was enlightened. br But the truth is br I'm only a gardener br who before the War br was a dirt farmer and learned br how to grow the bamboo br in ditches next to the fields, br how to leave things alone br and let the silt build up br until it was deep enough to stink br bad as night soil, bad br as the long, witch-grey br hair of a ghost. br br No secret in that. br br My land was no good, rocky, br and so dry I had to sneak br water from the whites, br hacksaw the locks off the chutes at night, br and blame Mexicans, Filipinos, br or else some wicked spirit br of a migrant, murdered in his sleep br by sheriffs and wanting revenge. br Even though they never believed me, br it didn't matter--no witnesses, br and my land was never thick with rice, br only the bamboo br growing lush as old melodies br and whispering like brush strokes br against the fine scroll of wind. br br I found some string in the shed br or else took a few stalks br and stripped off their skins, br wove the fibers, the floss, br into cords I could bind br around the feet, ankles, and throats br of only the best bamboos. br I used an ice pick for an awl, br a fish knife to carve finger holes, br and a scythe to shape the mouthpiece. br br I had my flutes.