Listening to the Water in the Mountains at Dawn

by Yongbo Ma

When the Goddess of Dawn takes a corner of her crimson headscarf
between her teeth, pacing back and forth on the horizon
the river, like a slender dark grey sash,
flashes and drifts among the trees from time to time
we go against the current, always keeping
a dense, dark, still thicket between us and the river

We talk now and then, fall silent at other times
letting the sound of flowing water rise and fall, never ceasing
we will never understand the stories the river tells
but we understand each other’s silence, like
dew drops rolling continuously down the ladder steps of leaf clusters

Yu Xuanji said that fish nests hide beneath the tangled roots of old willows
the small willow-root fish we fry to go with wine—

Could it be that it got its name from this? There’s no way to know

and the moon of yesterday, tied by the drooping branches,
has drifted through the embrace of how many mountains?
It’s no longer a question those who came ashore need to worry about

Downstream, the river is a spilled blue solvent
gluing heaven and earth into a closed oyster
layers of bright yellow, pale pink, and dark grey clouds
are its still-slowly wriggling flesh

Perhaps the small river understands our fragmented stories,
and mocks us with its silvery, ethereal flow
sending two startled wild ducks
clumsily flying toward their silent source in the mist
like our still-developing thoughts