It’s been a year since returning to East Mountain,
I arrive in time to see peasants planting spring fields.
In rain the color of grass stains everything green,
and red peach blossoms floating downstream combust.
This place has old monks studying the Sutras,
and men virtuous like Confucius’ hunchbacked friend.
We put on clothes hastily to visit one another,
and smile as we chat next to leaning stoops.