Twigs wattled between stakes ,
as an old man interlaces a fence
for a dooryard where river ambage fans out ;
fishermen drawing up their gill-seine
out of the T'an's flats , a trader's
sampan slips in on the pliable
rays of the anchoring
sun .
Traveling is an endless round
of crisis . Once you've crossed
the mountain passes called
The Double Edge and The Shelf
you are split .
A sliver of cloud for
a life . Can music glue
it ? Our troops make no he-
roic returns in the east . And
from the walls of a lookout
a trumpet
hounds autumn .