on laden grasses

In certain conditions, when snows fall just right, the high wind-swept valleys they suffer a plight, a curse and a blessing, a confluence grand, attracting sight-seers from far and near lands. After a good helping, of light but steady flakes, so thick and dark and insular that bamboo bends and breaks, we venture out and pierce the veil, the surface tightly sealed, with snow and stalk and biting leaves, throughout with ice congealed. The shield reveals, a gate well hid, into the inner hall, we enter quick, our voices hushed, our footfalls too – come one by one not two by two – be still, don't rush, the footing's slick, in this bamboo cathedral.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥