#pathlight11

The sky darkened relentlessly. The snow shone blue and lustrous, and the wind scattered the clouds into a fog even finer than the snow. This made her vision useless and unreliable; nothing she saw could be believed. He resolved to catch something as soon as possible for her to eat her fill. He chose the path near the village, dangerous for wolves. They interacted with people only reluctantly, usually avoiding the dwellings of humans and keeping to the wilderness and forests – except when it came to taking revenge. Now they had no choice. He could see her happiness fading rapidly in the snow and wind, her wet black nose ice-cold. In the thick fog her silver coat had lost its sheen and the gleam in her glistening pupils had faded.

Habit had brought them here, though they also knew the mosquitoes would be in hiding after the rain and they would be safe this cool fresh evening. But sometimes reindeer do what they are used to doing, and so on paths trodden out over the years, they came. Only as the outlines of the camp became visible through the trees did they hesitate. Perhaps back to the forest, for succulent lichen and the new mushrooms? But then the odour of the salt caught them and they hesitated no longer. And behind them, the white calf. By now the only surviving snow would be deep in mountain hollows. Yet here the calf was, white as a fresh fall. The brightest colour in the forest, a pure white shine. It stepped lightly out of the trees, dreamlike. It was too pure a colour to belong to the forest shades.

When the metal was discovered   It was exciting On its body People first saw colour   After a few years Its lustre began to disappear In the south With the climate so damp   Rust grew The constant threat of fracture

Dawn and dusk are more lovely than day and night, and the springtime and fall are more splendid than summer and winter. When trying to describe all I see in a mountain crag or on a beach, I sense the feebleness and simplicity of human language. As the Russian poet Ivan Bunin said: “Poets are not good at depicting the enormity of autumn, because they do not often describe colors and the sky.” But the words available to poets are limited, and many new lexicons are yet to be invented.

Everyone knows seaweeds never grow in Clear Water Castle, only a buried city from the Shang Dynasty. When the weather is fine at the bottom of the lake, I can spot its broken beams cracked corridors, hung with clouds passing by.

Under Qinghai skies Lies buried the insignia of the hawk clan     relics of clouds Blue glass of a crystalline lens Precipitous and sleek, it weeps without tears Earth's brimming curve—  A bronzed face Cries come from the sheepfold housing the gods