The blue summer you journeyed down and I traveled north, two days each, to Pengyou River to pitch tents to the sound of rippling waves on rock stays with me. In firelight, after roast fish, we heard strings plucked in the distance, and we drank plum wine and sang slowly of Xiwang village and its sinewy trees heavy with birds and spring blossoms, where we ate and slept and opened books. In the morning, as bright water geese flew with August clouds, we parted like two leaves yellow and weighted with dew falling from the same bough and returned across valleys and ranges to our desolate cities. Our time those months ago makes the winter frost cling longer to the leafless branches outside my window.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com