There have been many festive occasions over the year under heaven's high vault. Dewy grass shimmers, its roots growing down into the earth. Seeds rest in their wombs. Where the path rises steeply there are low firs, behind them higher ones. Their branches wave in the soft morning breeze.
Dust rises from our footsteps.
We climb grassy stones until we reach the summit, and the awakening land offers its morning beauty to the eye. Fields and meadows stand alongside each other. A stream falling from above borders them. Crows land in the branches of several trees, chatter uneasily, and fly back to the forest that borders the north of a village. The meadows shimmer once more with a fresh green, then the houses appear again.