It was getting late, and the smoke from Gao Laozhuang rose up crookedly, and when blown by the wind, scattered into gray fog all over the sky.
Zhu Bajie sat on the stone mill under the old locust tree outside the village, his two big ears drooped, looking at the official road in the distance in a trance. His nine-tooth rake lay across his knees, with a few dead grass stuck between the teeth of the rake, rustling in the wind.
