UNTITLED

Wind freshens on the lake, sending broad swells across these vast expanses.

It’s already late autumn,

blossoms rare, their scents sparse.

Mountains mirrored here in radiant waters—they’re in love with us,

can’t stop talking about us,

can’t stop admiring us.

Lotus seeds are already ripe, lotus leaves old and worn and withered.

Crystalline dew rinses duckweed blossoms pure, and shoreline grasses.

Gulls and egrets sleeping on beaches of sand don’t even turn their heads:

you’d think they were angry at us for going home so soon.