24 November 2008. Sliver of moon in dawn sky, autumn mists veiling the hills. Chinese fields of long ago... Hand-picked rows of rice, the amber stubble on gray-green earth, each plant tended. Surcos...
A scarf dance, green and exuberant--a kitchen towel, really, held high--to the rhythms of Prokofiev, or Borodin. Called forth from the same fields, the same roiled earth... In story, in song...
The years come round...
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