The bluestone pavement inside Yongding Gate is still stained with moisture from last night's spring rain. The peddler carrying a load is walking through the dew on his way to the morning market. The celadon bowls in the bamboo baskets make a crisp sound when they collide. The beggar huddled under the city wall was awakened by the sound. He gathered up his tattered cotton wool and shuddered as he looked at the increasingly bright fish belly in the sky - this spring in Fujian always carries an inexorable dampness.
