May 19th, 2015
Yang Wan-li (1127-1206)
It is raining; the sail blocks our view.
We raise it, and the scene becomes even more beautiful.
Tall pines stand like writing brushes on the bank,
Their cold reflections rippling into snakes.
Then a silver mirror floats out of the clouds,
And rays of morning light glitter on the jade sand.
We go to the bow and gaze into the distance
At range upon range of green mountains.