One hundred and twenty steps west of a small mound, through a grove of bamboos, hearing the water ringing as jade bracelets cuddling, I was delighted. Hewing the bushes, finally, I saw the petit tarn with azure water. The underside was of calm pebbles, while the shore was of turned ones, forming islets, terrains, cairns, and cliffs. The environ was of trees and vines, all green. Weaving, entwining, oscillating, and hanging, although different shapes, they danced with the wind.
Roughly a hundred fish in the petit tarn, freely as they were swimming in the open air. The sunlight pierced the surface, casting fish-shadows to the underside pebbles. Quietly, the fish were motionless; quickly they dashed away—as a play with us.
Try a panorama of the stream to the southeast—crooked as BeiDou or a serpent. So vague; the bank—crooked as the teeth of a dog. So vague to know its origin.
I sat by the petit tarn, surrounded by the grove. Isolated, chill to the bones, I turned melancholy, collected. For this extreme loneliness, resting no longer, I recorded and left.
With me were Wu Wuling, Gong Gu and Zongxuan, my brother. And two other companions were the Cui boys, called Shuji and Fengyi.
 The Big Dipper or the Plough.