When I reach the canyon's veiled path, Venus lowers herself back into darkness.
A chilly breeze caresses her face. My nose runs, her steps hasten. Rising before
me are the words Hsieh Ling-yun wrote sixteen hundred years ago:

I started thinking impossible cliffs at dawn
and by evening settled on a mountaintop

Ascending to the ridge trail, knees throb as if scaling the Himalayas. The crows
would come for him / Eagles too would come flying in.

A vulture banks above a yellow stream splashing against the hedges. My wolf
genes howl, my plant genes are offended.The land is still thirsty from rain that
was predicted, it didn't fall.