Alimangos on the net wall of a fishpond. What are the net walls for? Are they meant to protect the ponds from plastic and other wastes that may fall down from above? Or are they for the alimangos to crawl on? Perhaps the net walls are like fences of a land. They are meant to determine where one’s ownership of a pond begins and ends.
I sit on the elevated concrete road built between fish ponds. The cement is still hot from an entire day’s sun bath. The wind blowing from the west makes little waves on the dark green water. Occassionally, the wind touches the left side of my face harshly and makes my shirt vibrate on my back. The wind and the water move toward east. They pass by the young trees that grow on the bank of the fish pond on the side across where I sit. Most of these trees are barren, while the remaining are covered with very young, yellow green leaves. The water flows beneath their submerged roots, wetting it to grow leaves on May. Meanwhile, the wind touches the young, green leaves, makes them sway but leaves the barren trees unmoved. Sometimes, the barren stems move gently, but you have to look at them patiently to catch them. What are left unmoved by both water and wind are the huts built on the banks of the fishponds, betwen two or three of them. The wind and water go through the walls of net that divide the fishponds, where tiny crabs crawl and hang. The water flows on these fish ponds and remain trap in them until their caretakers open the gates they drain their waters toward the Manat River and welcome new waters that bring with them all kinds of surprises, waters which remain empty of fishes until caretakers riding bancas, paddling around the ponds, unleash little fishes that will grown into new tilapias and bangus to be harvested and sold into the market that remains the main source of life in this town and those nearby.