The willow³ twigs⁴, daubed with a light green by several days of sunshine, are now covered all over with dust and look so sickly that they need to be washed. And the parched⁵ soil and tree roots have likewise been dying for rainfall. Yet the rain is reluctant to come down.

 

I can never forget the thunderstorm we often had in my hometown. Over there, whenever the rumble⁶ of thunder reverberated⁷ across the valley, the buds of spring would seem to sprout⁸（萌芽） freely after being disturbed and roused up from their slumber⁹ in the frozen soil. Then tenderly stroked by the soft hands of fine rain, they would put forth¹⁰ bright green leaves and pink flowers. It makes me nostalgic and melancholy¹¹ to think about old times and my mind is as depressed¹² as the vast expanse of North China is thirsty. A tear stands in my dull eye and, like the rain lingering in the murky¹³ sky, is slow to roll down.  

 

White ducks have also become somewhat impatient. Some are sending out irritated quacks¹⁴ from the turbid¹⁵ waters of an urban creek¹⁶. Some keep swimming leisurely¹⁷ and tirelessly like a slow boat. Some have their long necks submerged headfirst in the water while sticking up their orange webbed feet behind their tails and splashing them desperately¹⁸ so as to keep their balance. There is no knowing if they are searching for tiny bits of food from the bottom of the creek or just enjoying the chill of the deep water.

 

Some of them stagger out of the water and, to relieve their fatigue¹⁹, begin to saunter up and down with a gentleman-like swagger in the shade of the willow trees. Then, they stand about to preen²⁰（打扮，用嘴整理） their white plumage carefully. Occasionally they give themselves a sudden shake or flap their long wings to let off water drops from among their feathers. One of them, after grooming²¹ itself, turns round its neck to rest on the back, then buries its long red beak²² under its wings and quietly closes its small black eyes tucked away among the white fine hair. Apparently²³ it is getting ready to sleep. Poor little creature, is that the way you sleep?

 

The scene recalls to my mind the duckling raiser in my hometown. With a long bamboo pole in hand, he would look after a large flock of gosling-yellow ducklings moving about on the limpid²⁴ water of a shallow brook²⁵ flanked on both sides by green grass. How the little creatures jig-jigged the bamboo pole to scamper²⁶ over field after field, hillside after hillside! When night fell, the duckling raiser would make his home in a tent-like bamboo shed. Oh, that is something of the distant past! Now, in this dusty country of ours, what I yearn²⁷ for is to hear the drip-drop of rain beating against leaves.

 

When I look up at a gray misty²⁸ pall²⁹ of a low-hanging sky, some dust particles feel chilly³⁰ on my face. A hawk³¹, seemingly irked by the gloomy sky, swoops³² down sideways out of nowhere, with wings wide-spread and immovable, until it almost hits the hillock on the other side of the brook. But it soared skywards again with a loud flap. I am amazed by the tremendous size of its wings. And I also catch sight of the grizzled feathers on its underside.

 

Then I hear its loud cry - like a powerful voice from the bottom of its heart or a call in the dark for its comrades in arms.

 

But still no rain.

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