Returning Rain

First, I saw a monster in the clouds. Beetling cloven brow, shocks of hair, deep eye sockets, snout, evil sneer, pointed chin; an entire face, moon-backed and glowing, aiming its glare in the general direction of the valley towns. I watched as the west wind dragged the face across the patch of moonlight, robbed it of its twice-borrowed glow, and dispersed it into the night. The clouds grew thicker, and the moon itself was obscured. For a while, thin fog drifted in the air and filled it with the smell of tule marshes, concealed the more distant trees and turned those closer to grey ghosts. I heard the slow gonging of wind chimes nearby. Then, accompanied by the sound of a rising breeze in the pines, the first drops of rain fell. Silent at first, they made their presence known by their icy tracks on my face. Quickly growing larger and falling faster, they beat a rhythm on the dark leaves of the bushes and the pale walkway. Washed clean of swirling mists, the trees became visible again, the forest growing outward from the place I stood until it was lost in its own gathered mass of shadow. The dull pavement was polished by raindrops, and the night awoke with the music of dripping and trickling water. Night passing, now the clouds turn approaching dawn to pale translucence, reflected in glassy streets, while chimneys send out streams of smoke that drift just above the rooftops as though held down by all that grey weight of wintry sky.

Tea and Verse

Housebound by the persistent rain, I spent part of the afternoon reading Chinese poetry, in lieu of a walk. If I can't go outdoors to walk, I at least like to walk my thoughts through literary landscapes. I found a verse by the early Sung poet and painter Su Tung-Po (Su Shih), which I don't recall reading before. It's a nice piece for a cold day, when the rain is falling to fill the lakes and rivers and recharge the springs.

BOILING TEA

Living water should be cooked
With living fire.
I go to the rock where once I fished,
Myself drawing up the limpidity of the pool.
I keep a gourd vessel in the store;
The moon is kept in a jar.
I slice the water with a ladle;
The river is kept in a jug.

The snowy milk has risen
From the bottom, where it was boiled;
Suddenly the wind is heard
Pouring through the pine forest.
It is hard to prevent my withered tongue
From drinking three full cups.
Sitting idly, I listen to the watches
Beating in the deserted town.

-Su Tung-Po

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