Autumn
Du Yunxie

Even the pigeon's whistles make a ripe sound.
Gone is the summer, noisy with rain,
And of the severe and sultry test, of detailed memories
In dangerous swimming, we shall not think again.

The ground-breaking of the past spring's shoots,
The twists and wounds of the twigs as they grew,
Scorched as branches in the harsh son,
Went nearly astray in night rain.

No clouds float now in the easy air;
Hill and river are limpid, fields of vision
exceedingly wide:
Oh season of ripeness in wisdom and in feeling,
When rivers too seem derived from yet remoter springs.

Confused air currents ferment
In valleys to transparent vintages;
How many autumnalities have blown here?
The intoxicating scent
Has suffered all autumn's flowers and leaves.

Streetside trees hint in red,
And cycle wheels flash morning air;
Up in the air tower cranes' arms pointing far away
Autumn light scans news of rich harvests.