Riding the Qiantang Rapids

Our boat is light as a leaf but its oars startle wild geese. The water and sky are clear; the smooth waves are blue. Fish swim in the bronze mirror; herons stalk the misty shore. We swiftly pass Sandy Creek, Frosty Creek, and Moonlit Creek. The curves in the river are like painted screens. We pass where Yan Ling came fishing, refusing to be named Imperial Counselor. Now these men are only names, and their stories are only dreams. The mountains are long in the distance, their clouds ever changing.