270. September 27th
Water droplets dispersed though the air,
Like a screen of smoked glass.
Looming ahead is a great mountain,
Yet just a silhouette until it becomes:
A forest with trees both golden and green,
Scattered like corn in a field.
Unable to make out the next monument,
A bird is seen flying towards it.
Following the path that takes
I see that there is a field,
Through which we travel slowly,
Making progress painfully.
Yet what is beyond this field,
No mere bird can help us with.