Karen An-Hwei Lee, North by the Taiwan Strait: One Nation, Two Systems

If you desire wealth for a year, sow rice.

Call it a wash. After the tsunami, who dares to swim the cold Black Strait? A sea bird? A rattle-comb of fish bones? Alluvial fan, a river maelstrom of fluorescent tunnel and buried flagella lights, uppertail salt of oystercatchers in flight, a diapason of sound in flue pipes—Pearl River traffic—under the Jiulong delta. Mount a green terrace of marina wind for fishers of children, dogs, and swimmers.

If you are planning for a decade, plant trees.

Echo the waves in North Sea moonlight: say, if a midnight tsunami rises from an earthquake zone, a displaced or exiled sea floor. How shall we build a tunnel under the strait? Say the wave floods a sea wall, drowns the squid boats. Say fishing baubles, loquat rinds, wild petrels, and frigatebirds say nothing about a one-China policy but the government says no. Bins of merchandise-for-export bob in rivers, washed-out chain of isles graced by ruined canals, draped by monofilament fishing nets.

If you are planning for a lifetime, educate people.

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