Maillot by Ziyue Liu
Blocks of color, pure and straight as if squeezed out of a tube and spread even by a palate knife. Melting clouds. Blazing sunlight streaming through. No details marred. Where there are troughs and ruts in the burdened asphalt, light and thus heat reflects, laying about moisture and niched puddles left over after yesterday’s rain, with fervor.
Trees with their fruits born fresh, peaches, apples and plums, sway gently in a breeze. Groves of them, like a web spun of green strings and the path in between, a black widow made and believed.
Water laps in a parallel river. The sounds of it, as it nears the opposite end of the park, is drowned out by toddlers waddling, dawdling, running amok in a little forest of their own, tucked away in a corner of the garden; where swings, seesaws and slides keep company those little devil-incarnates; while the parents pant and wheeze, of their age, of their lack of vitality.
![Yang Hong The Blue Coast[1768].jpeg](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5e0efef83d3cdd7a53106b32/1622545647988-L65HE29USO4OAO4U5U81/Yang+Hong+The+Blue+Coast%5B1768%5D.jpeg)
