The Flying Yin Collection

Dark clouds hang low over the fields, blotting out the morning light; countless shadows drift above the wild ponds. The wind sweeps cold threads through my sleeves; dusk settles low, stretching beneath the eaves. Distant peaks hide their shapes in the mountains, while empty waves shimmer with a chill. I sit before the steps, where moss has grown thick; half the window is locked in mist, and the clear autumn wind is hushed. For days, clouds have pressed low against the eaves; shadows fill the road, carrying rain and mud. Umbrellas pass in a jumble at the alley’s mouth; willow shadows on the wall grow forlorn. Tea smoke curls around my desk, my mood at ease; pages turn by the window as evening settles in. Before I notice the wind passing the steps, the first hint of autumn chill has already reached the west side of the little bridge.