Qingshan Village.
Jiang Guoqiang woke at five-thirty. Tossing and turning, unable to fall back asleep, he finally just got up.
Pan Lanfang was still asleep. He dressed quietly, grabbed his hoe, and headed out the door.
The rice in the fields had already been harvested, leaving the ground bare. He planned to till the soil and plant some winter vegetables.
Reaching the ridge between the fields, he struck his hoe into the ground, took off his jacket, and hung it on a tree branch. Then he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
The early morning air in the fields was cool, and dew dampened his canvas shoes.
He bent at the waist, turning the soil one hoe-stroke at a time. His movements were steady and unhurried. After decades of this work, every swing landed with perfect precision.
After working for over half an hour, the sun rose, the mist dissipated, and the fields brightened.
