The houses in Laos are so flimsy, perched up on their long stilts as if waiting for the wolf to huff and puff and blow them down.
At night, skim-milk blue light shines out from open windows and doors and right through the thin reed-woven walls, so that the houses glow from inside like Chinese paper lanterns, just tethered to the ground by their skinny stilt legs. About to lift off and drift away.
A French woman I met who has been coming here for years told me she loves Laos because the people seem to treat life so lightly; as a gift. Flimsy and fragile and easily blown away.
I walk through the village and when I turn back I half expect it to have vanished, to see just a trail of vanishing lights in the dark sky.