The Ox and the Weaver Girl
The weather had turned. A warm breeze ran across the Chinese waters and blew a few petals off the beautiful seaside blossoms. They swept passed a young woman with long black hair and a radiant presence. She stood on the lower wall by the water—one that barred the waves from civilization—with an ivory flute in her hand. It was dawn, but the sun wouldn’t linger in sleep much longer. The woman lifted the white instrument to her full lips and, in a breath, began to play. Wonderful sounds flowed out of the tiny flute, laying to rest over the entire village. They settled comfortably among the cozy buildings, and the woman continued to send rippling waves of pleasure through its enveloping layer as she bade the sun to rise. On the far hill looking back, a great ox, who had been lying in peaceful slumber, woke, happily entranced as he was every morning. For being awakened by the woman’s music was like waking to soft kisses and pulled gently from one’s pillow into comforting arms. He stared down, mesmerized by the black-haired girl as she cast her spell. To him—and all who heard it—it was like a million night-stars coalescing to form the day; like the gift of life steaming out from the ground; like a frosty chill warming to a July wind. When the sun had risen high enough to rub the red shades from his eyes and turn a rich gold color, the woman stopped playing.
