Fu Hua

Stepping down from the bicycle crank, I wandered along the base of the brick wall until I reached the shade of a wooden planter. Wedged among the damp gravel was a sliver of broken blue-and-white porcelain, its curved edge half-buried in dark moss. I leaned my blaster against a smooth garden stone to free both hands, then worked my fingers under the sharp rim. With a gentle tug, it loosened from the earth with a soft scrape. I smoothed the clinging loam away with my thumb. The painted indigo pattern of a tiny willow leaf reappeared beneath the glaze, cool and glossy in the afternoon slant of sun.