In a western land far from China, the New Lunar Year
starts with the cold element of water: it comes in the form of rain. A writer
sits at her desk that is also the dining table and a sometimes home for
itinerant objects. She favours the chair that faces the room's double windows;
admires the view of clustered plant pots and washing draped for drying, the
toys left out and a dog changing sleep positions on the leather shine of the
sofa. Rain dots and stripes the outer panes, opaques the horizon.
Any new start provokes future thoughts; she thinks; and
beyond the fascination of the weather her thoughts wander. Is there a
perceivable energy of time patterns? This year represented by a horse, by the
element of wood, a masculine force, the colour green: what comes next?
Uncertainty is essential: it is the medium of faith. But what does come next?
She thinks of horseshoes printed in mud: when they change direction it is done
in a curve; where the head points the hooves follow, one step after another.
The next step comes next: the direction seems correct. But if one cannot see
beyond the rain, it is not important: perhaps it does not exist at all.
She imagines a creature, a green stallion, a
steam of exertion rising from gleaming flanks; limbs of living wood; and lets
it run free.
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