Song of My Cottage Unroofed by Autumn Wind
An eighth-month gale takes three layers of thatch off a Chengdu cottage and scatters them across the river, into the treetops and down into a pond, and boys from the village south of the house carry off what fell within reach while the owner shouts himself hoarse and comes home leaning on his stick. Then the clouds close, the quilt is years old and cold as iron, a child's kicking has torn the lining, and the rain comes through the roof in threads that will not stop all night.
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