李达伟《迁徙的鸟》

In those days, the sky was a profound azure, descending into the valley. In front of me lay the Nujiang River, fed by numerous tributaries emerging from the depths of the Gaoligong Mountains. These tributaries wound their way through sugarcane fields and mango groves, their sounds blending with the birdsong. Some joined the Nujiang alone, while others converged before merging. The river twisted and surged, its name constantly changing. By the time it reached me, it was called "Lujiang."

During the rainy season, heavy rains turned the rivers below the Gaoligong Mountains muddy, though the mountain streams remained clear. The Nujiang was murky, as was the Yingjiang (a name so beautiful it evokes countless interpretations and imaginations—abundant river, abundant world. The river’s name matched the season I found it in. Close your eyes and envision—Yingjiang; open your eyes and behold—Yingjiang). The Ruili River, too, was turbid (its rippling waves belonged to another season, yet after the rains, the Ruili River’s waves could still inspire affection). I knew these rivers were only temporarily muddied by the rains. Once the rainy season ended, they would return to their clear, deep blue state. In winter, under the fiery red reflection of Panzhihua flowers, they appeared so clear they seemed blue.

The familiar clear blue water stretched wide on the banks of the Nujiang where we stood, and the river seemed to flow slowly. Noticing bits of sediment carried by the river, I realised it was about to rise. We fled in panic but emerged unscathed. We reached a hillside, where I thought I saw the world I knew, but a local informed me otherwise. Despite the flickering lights, it was still primitive and backward, filling me with fear. I awoke suddenly to find my daughter sleeping beside me. Her presence softened and melted me. For a moment, she giggled in her sleep; I wondered what she dreamed about. Would she dream of that river I encountered in reality and often saw in my dreams?

My dreams were populated not just by rivers but by wandering poets, monks, folk artists, native people, and many other living beings. All eyes were drawn to the river as if it were our everything. We knew only that our joys and sorrows played out beside it.

Standing by the river, we watched it flow while engaging with the world beyond. Despite knowing these rivers had changed due to the rainy season’s waters, they seemed to flow unceasingly, undaunted by the threat of drying up. This mirrored the vitality and inexhaustibility of life presented by the Gaoligong Mountains. Often, we had no time for finer details. While living and wandering in the Gaoligong Mountains, I explored some of these details, witnessing or hearing about the fates of various people. Personal destinies do not differ much due to geography.

The initial sight of the river in the Gaoligong Mountains was astonishing. I saw the Nujiang River, an actual river to me. The impact of a large river was immense. During my childhood, a small river was enough to soothe me. Beneath the Gaoligong Mountains, some children's childhoods were different, soothed by the flow of a large river. I love rivers, though it’s hard to articulate why. I love both their symbolic and fundamental aspects. Rivers flow in myriad forms.

In the Gaoligong Mountains, the river's first appearance was already breathtaking. I encountered the Nujiang River, an actual river in every sense for me. The influence of such a mighty river was profound. During my childhood, only a tiny river offered me comfort. Beneath the Gaoligong Mountains, some people's childhoods differed from mine because of the Nujiang River, whose vast flow soothed their early years. I have an affinity for rivers, though it's hard to articulate why. I appreciate both their symbolic and literal aspects. Rivers move in myriad ways, whether turbulent, serene, trickling, or roaring. They originate from their source or a specific section and eventually merge with the sea. Often, I would fall into deep silence when I found myself by the river. That was my silence, but the river itself was never quiet; it flowed, narrated, surged, and murmured, telling the stories of life's wholeness and fragmentation. I listened to the river's flow (hoping it would endure forever) and felt its stance towards life, ageing, illness, and death. Gradually, I seemed to grow indifferent to these aspects.