Kicking loose stones out of his way, a tea farmer climbs down a mountainside towards the few remaining tea saplings waving their leaves as if in surrender to the typhoon that roared through Nantou like a wild boar sparing nothing in its path.
It was just last year, the moon rose over pine trees and the terracotta tiled roofs into the courtyards where the lanterns bathed the streets in a warm, golden light while smoke from roasted chestnuts clambered up the flagpoles to announce the Harvest Festival.
After the typhoon
digging through rubble, the scent
of his wife’s perfume.