Before the Rain
He Qifang

Having made thelast circle in the breeze, the last of the pigeons disappeared with a faintwhistle. Perhaps they mistakingly thought the dark and cold sky to be thecoming dim light of night, or perhaps they predicted the coming wind and rain;thus they flew to their warm wooden nest rather early.

A plaster ofsoft green cast on the willow branches after several days of sunlight now hadbecome somewhat withered under the dust. It was in great need of a wash. Andthe cracked, parched earth and tree roots had long been waiting for rain. Butstill the rain was slow in coming.

I thought of thesound of thunder and rain in my home village. The violent rumbling thunderclapsechoed from valley to valley. It seemed as if spring shoots were shaken,awakened and broke out slender green from the frozen earth. The sound of therain as soft and thin as grass fondled them with gentle hands, making themshoot up in clusters of glossy dark green branches that waved their blossomingred flowers. This feeling of nostalgia hovered about me, making me feelmelancholy in my heart. The weather in my heart felt just like the immense landin the north that was also lacking rain. A soft tear drop hesitated beforefalling from my dull and heavy eyes just like the rain paused in the gloomysky.

The white duckslooked a bit agitated, for their anxious cries came from ditches in the citywhich had become contaminated and changed colour. Some were not weary, paddlingslowly along like boats; others were putting their long necks into water,stretching their red webbed toes behind and constantly stroking the water tokeep their bodies balanced. I don't know whether they were searching for smallbits of food at the bottom or just lingering in the coolness of the waterbelow.

Some had climbedon to the banks and were walking back and forth under a willow tree just likesome gentlemen relieving their fatigue of paddling. Then they stood thereirregularly, pluming their feathers carefully with their beaks. Sometimes, theyswung their bodies or stretched their broad wings out to shake off the waterdrops in their feathers. One of them had finished the pluming, curling its neckupon the back with its long red beak buried within its wing and little eyes(which were among the fine white soft hair) closed, as if it were going tosleep. Poor small animal, are you dreaming in this way?

Thus I recalledthe duckling tenders in my home village. A great swarm of yellowish craneducklings floated in the streams, the shallow blue water beneath, the greengrass on both banks, and the long bamboo pole in the hands of the tender. Howmerrily when his small army was chirping and how timidly when it was passing byone field to another hill slope! When the night fell, a tent-like bamboo coverwas erected on the ground as his home. But how far away these images appeared!In this dusty land I could only hope for a bit rain pattering on the treeleaves. Here the coolness of a drop of rain dripping into my anxious dreamswould grow into a round and shady tree to cover myself.

Lifting my head,I saw the sky hung like a grey curtain of mist, and some chips of coldness fellupon my face. An eagle from afar kept on flying down with its wings inclined,as if it were expressing its angry feeling against the heavy weather. When it nearlytouched the earth on the other bank of the ditch, and then shaking its wingsviolently, it soared high. Its two huge wings made me surprised, for underwhich I saw its greyish feathers.

Then I heard itsvigorous cry, just like the cry of a big heart or a call in search of itscompanion in the dark.

But still therain was late in coming.