In this season, the sky doesn’t do weather; it directs a goddamn play. It stares into the mirrors of the waterlogged rice terraces and, like Narcissus, watches itself fall in love and tear itself to shreds ten times a day.
From Sapa to Y Ty, from Lai Chau to Mu Cang Chai, it gives itself to everyone, to every mountain peak, but never truly surrenders a damn thing.
It parades around, swaps costumes between two hairpin turns, and leaves you standing there with your lenses soaked and your eyes wide open, trying to hunt down a shadow that has already fucked right off.