Evening in Guankou

Row after row of dull blue glass sit restively between layer upon layer of the white tile that haunts the national architecture. The grating of their slides to the left and right only to be interchanged and replaced with a dull blue screen punctuates the silence. A change without change. Had I looked out another other window, I would've been rewarded with a static scene of half-prepared fields, flooded in anticipation of their seasonal guests, waiting between green hills, but such is the pull of a soft chair and a place to set my wine. Other sounds begin to rise, jumping into the evening fray, seeking to replace the sights of day with the sounds of night. The tinkling stir and the buzzing fry of a stir fry dinner whose other offerings to my senses are thwarted by the chasm between our buildings. The rumbling and booming of the fireworks cry out in a living example of what I had hoped to teach of onomatopoeia. As the day's final light escapes behind its nightime mountain home I'm finally left with the familiar battle between the frogs and cicadias for nightime supremacy.