Summer Rain in the Ancient City

It's raining, and I hadn't expected it to come so fast. The rain gear I ordered online hasn't shipped yet, and here I am, already soaked in the ancient city in summer. I look up at the sky—a grayish-blue canvas, crisp at first then soft and hazy. I can trace the waterlines of raindrops sliding down, finally hitting the bluestone lanes, bursting into a spray of petals and splashing a hint of coolness.

Summer in North China is scorching; going out, I'm not in the habit of carrying an umbrella. So all I can do is run hard, hoping to reach my little loft in the ancient city before I'm drenched through. The eaves across the whole city are shedding torrents of rain, thousands upon thousands of miniature waterfalls hanging in front of the houses, orderly and spectacular. The open channel has brimmed over, a few lotus leaves drifting onto the road with the overflowing water. From a distance, it gives off the atmosphere of a water town, as if I were boating through misty rain in Jiangnan, adding a touch of grace like a freehand ink wash.

Back in my lodging, after tidying up, I listen to the rain by the window. Beneath the eaves, sheltering visitors chat about their travels, their voices fading as the rain intensifies. Across the way on the ground floor, carved wooden doors and windows are splattered with rain, but the wood has been treated with anti-corrosion and waterproofing, so after weathering so many storms, it's not only intact but even more time-worn and charming. The openwork carvings on the windows look freshly washed, their crimson hue vivid and three-dimensional. That's why I love the rain—it washes everything clean and restores a crystal clarity to the world.

I can no longer remember how many rains I've watched in this ancient city, but this year's downpour seems unusually heavy. Suddenly it swathes the whole town in a vast mist, blurring the distant Taihang Mountains and veiling the Yishui River that runs through the city in a shifting haze. A sudden impulse moves me: I want to walk along the river in the rain.

With an umbrella held up, I head for the riverside. The embankment is thick with grass and trees, willows bending low. It's the flood season, so the river spreads much wider now; seen close up, it almost feels like a lake. Ancient city, rain, water's edge, trailing willows, a narrow path, a held umbrella—I feel as if I've stepped into an ink-wash painting, the mood profound and lingering. Facing such a scene, it's only fitting to compose a few lines to capture what's in my heart:

Over Taihang, sudden thunder rolls,

Across the whole sky, silver snakes dance in chaos;

Before I set out, water cascades like a waterfall—better to pause;

Outside the wall, passersby laugh at the lotus buds, unaware that in the little tower someone is just finishing dressing;

Leaning alone by the carved window, I long to raise a cup—one moment to admire drifting clouds veiling the moon, another to admire petals falling, shadows thinning;

When the path is strewn with faded green, I'll walk with Huizi, heedless of where wind and rain may lead.