Pastures of the Wind.

The sounds of the man-made machines that impersonated giant dragonflies beats down and around the nearby valleys and mountains, clouds bowing to their flight, the sun chanting for their travels. With pride, distinction and indifference they pass over the little villages that reside in the flatlands adjacent to the stone giants that reached for the sky. The villagers barely glanced at the helicopters, still tiding away at crops and fruits, grinding wheat and tending to their daily lives. Dedicated and spirited, these lower-class men of China seem to be born of a different Era, one which had a near-poetic way of living. So much more respectable than the modern people of our age that get caught up in superficial ideals and artificial pleasures.

Swallows flew around the papered wings of the windmill and leaves glided together in circles, dancing on the ground. Mice as dirty as the ground were traversing around in search for nutrition; until he arrived. The man was a little scruffy, his vermillion coat hung loosely off his arms and shoulders, tattered and flowing by his pant pockets, the sleeves creeping just below the elbow. His gray pants run past the knee and in his hand is a lacquered cane of sorts that matches the shade of his coat, using it to walk. Then, he came to a halt and opened the unshaven mouth, framed by locks of white hair, and spoke.

"S'gonna get good, real soon."