Ruth Holzer Bamboo In the gentle evening air, the bamboo is stirring. It is not streaming like the tawny manes of warhorses flowing over the steppe, nor like the scarlet banners of their riders. It is not rippling like a pond brushed with breeze, nor thrashing like the famished North Sea in February. It is not fluttering like the corps de ballet, nor waving like a crowd on the pier as a great ship eases out of the harbor. In lengthening shadows, the bamboo is moving like bamboo.
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