Before the Rain
... in my heart like homesickness, depressing me. My mood is so upset like the droughty land in the north without rain. A tear in my dried up eye pit, like the rain lingering in the sky, fails to fall. The white ducks seem losing patience as well, for their fretting tweets come out from the canals in the city, which are a bit dirty. Some are still favouring the boat-like slow motion. Some dives with their necks in the water. Their red webs beat the water on and on to keep balance. I wonder if they are looking for the minute food at the canal bed, or enjoying the cold deep in the water. Some of the ducks have been on the bank, strolling under the willows like a gentleman, to relax from the rowing. And then they are standing here and there, fondling their white feathers carefully with their beaks, sometimes shaking the body or flapping the wings to swing away the water drops between feathers. One which has finished the grooming, bends the neck to his back, its long red beak buried in the wings, and closes its little black eyes amid the white fluff, as if it were preparing to sleep. Poor little animal, are you having your dreams this way? I managed to recall the man herding the young ducks in my hometown. A large flock of young ducks scatters among the rivulets. The man stands among a scene of pellucid shallow water and green grass at the banks, with a long bamboo rod in his hand. How joyfully his little troop tweets! And what a look it is that they get across obediently a field then a hillside and so on follo...