It was already afternoon when I sat on the steep and perilous rocks at the mountaintop. Although the sunlight shone down vigorously, the cold wind at the summit was even fiercer, scattering most of the sun's warmth in the high sky, leaving only a faint trace of power to reach the ground. Everything was shrouded in the winter chill, listless. White clouds were torn into small tufts by the cold wind, fluttering like butterflies in a blue sea of flowers.
Crossing the pass I had seen at the foot of the mountain, there was no open pasture here. The pasture the villagers mentioned was probably elsewhere, perhaps the spoon-shaped mountain meadow I had visited before. Nor were there the fearsome black bears, though people repeatedly emphasized that black bears had been seen in recent years. But in this season, they might be hiding in some cave, lazily sleeping a century-long slumber. Even so, in the silent and uninhabited wilderness, I occasionally imagined that scene subconsciously—if I were unfortunate enough to encounter a black bear, I would helplessly accept that fate.
I passed through the village on this beautiful morning. Cooking smoke drifted over the village with a comforting warmth, as people calmly went about their morning chores of feeding livestock. The sunlight fell on the most concentrated slope of the village, where people led yellow cattle out of low, dark barns and tied them in sunny open spaces by the road. They chewed hay leisurely, basking in the warm sunlight, their neck bells occasionally ringing crisp sounds.
Their eyes were so clear and pure, curiously sizing up the unfamiliar passerby. They reminded me of the gentle kitten at home, and also of a dusk in mid-October when a three-year-old girl with a little bun stood outside the fence, teasing the calf inside with her favorite spicy snack, just to stretch her arm and touch the calf's forehead. The calf seemed to enjoy this gesture from its little owner, looking very pleased.
The mountains and villages of Yejiu are so close that people can walk a dozen minutes up the mountain path and sit in the wilderness, tending to cattle and sheep while chopping firewood. On the mountain trail, several women had already gone into the pine forest to rake pine needles. Because of the cold, the cattle and sheep had not yet entered this meadow. Only a watchdog jumped out of a small wooden hut, barking at strangers, then quietly sat on the grass two meters behind, with a slightly fawning expression. Its owner had left it alone to guard the sheep.
Sitting on a sunlit slope, not far above, a flock of red-billed blue magpies and another bird resembling a tit perched on a bare low tree, chirping joyfully, making the bare tree lively. As I walked up, these timid birds swiftly flew away, landing on a farther, taller tree, not letting anyone approach. As they flew off quickly, I caught a glimpse of the brilliant colors hidden under the wings of another bird—a warm orange.
Sparrows were relatively bolder. Though small and plain in color, they allowed people to approach, to sit and watch them peck at grass seeds among the withered weeds, like leaves blown by a strange wind.
The forest above the meadow was even more desolate. Fallen giant trees lay across the weeds, their unique textures cracked by wind and rain, looking like a tea table carefully designed and carved by the mountain god. I wondered if, on clear nights with bright moons and twinkling stars, the mountain god would invite companions to sip jade dew, exhale wild horses, and laugh heartily.
Near the summit, under the forest, an unfamiliar plant sprouted new leaves from the weeds and decaying leaves, growing vigorously into a large patch. Its thick, smooth leaves made it look like vegetables planted by the mountain god. But I met them when the new leaves had just emerged, and I had no time to wait for them to grow further, so I didn't know if they would bloom or what kind of flowers they would bear.
In this mountain range of Yejiu, there are no black bears, but there are traces of the mountain god sipping. The stillness and purity of the summit are disturbed by the wanton cold wind. Climbing onto the huge rocks, the distant mountains north of Tacheng come into view through the gaps in the trees, where stillness and purity can be seen, rippling outward like ripples. And closer, a small village, surrounded by dense pine forests, makes not a sound.
