A thousand milk stones wrapped in emerald jade gloss
they pierced through from the earth to the cosmos
each containing a life of their own,
An ancient village existing
not the slightest out-of-place,
In the distance the mist of rain could be seen
veiling the tips of each karst sculpture
The sounds… nature itself.
B. L. Crisp
At one point, I came to rest at a spot on my way back from an 8 hour cycle. There were children playing in the rice fields. Their feet splashing between the blades of grass and mud soaked water. A father returned home from work and immediately played basketball ball with his son and his friend. A little girl cycled on a bike chasing a dragonfly. The chickens sang and the dogs barked. A grandmother shadowed a toddler as he chased a family of ducks. A grandfather cradled his sleeping baby granddaughter. A lady in the distance hung the washing on bamboo sticks on the roof of her house. The small community were all outside enjoying the weather, socialising freely, as the smell of fish and meat began to drift in the air. The karst mountains painted the backdrop in at least six dimensions in every direction. The birds and insects rested in the mountain trees singing to the setting sun. And I, sat at a round marble stone table not wishing to remove myself from that moment for as long as I possibly could.
Yangshuo, Guilin, China.