At 44th and 5th Ave.
Four days ago, we ate breakfast in the kitchen where host grandpa warmed the room with firewood they collected from the mountains.
The fields glowed in bright yellow. They will yield good seeds for oil this year, said our host.
“Just follow the water, you’ll get to town and back.”
The village had no street light. Dogs barked in pitch darkness. The sky was velvet and stars were closer. We followed the stream with our ears and found home.
Here, standing on the street in New York City, I suddenly realize what I miss: the smile, that bright and content smile on villagers’ faces. It is not here at the 44th and 5th Avenue.
I’ll tell you more about Li Jiang.