Vertical Wing

The snow on Chang'an Street has fallen for a thousand years. Among the broken jade, Shen Heng often saw invisible threads swaying, like looming spider webs under the moonlight, adhering to the fragments of time. The ginkgo leaves I picked up under the Bodhi tree that year had in their veins the reflection of a look back in my previous life - I walked across a broken bridge holding an oil-paper umbrella, and the raindrops condensed on the umbrella ribs fell, just in time to wet the poem paper placed on the bow of the boat.