the bamboo shoot sprouts and prospers. the sun shines uninterrupted. soothing rain softens silken soil. fruitful days pass into crisp nights pass into weeks into months. soon, the first cold rains of winter drip on leaves which have less strength. winds weave, which are laced with scents and threads of a frosted siberia. the bamboo looks left looks right at other bamboo shoots which have grown too and always remained close by. the bamboo looks up at the now fogging sky looks down and realizes it's newfound fear of heights.
the lone grain of rice it lays alone cold in the bowl absorbing all the glory and attention. but is it better warm in a ball of steamy rice, swarmed surrounded perhaps cramped and crushed but consequently one of many?