Black bows, streaking winds, the rye

is pleasing to the eye. Beauty strikes me

by the countryside. The air is all but

still. Flies come and go; yet, time

stays at a standstill. I rode my bike across

the countryside; well, I rode on the back

of my grandfather’s moped, bumping up

and down as we traveled through that

patch of gravel road; with dust flying

past my ears; eyes closed, all I could hear

was the veer of electricity and the laughter

of his voice. So, it was yellow. It was summer

in the burdened rurality of China, with 

nothing left to lose. Rather, nothing I had

gained was worth losing. I, as a child,

wished for nothing more than the simple

company of my grandparents; a stay so

precious that it made the temporary elongate

its permanence; made my smile authentic.

Yet, it has been more than four years since

I visited the Rye in the Countryside, parted

by the big blue sea. Wistful as I am, a call 

away I make everyday, though nothing

could replace reality.