The china painter once more dips her brush in plum blossom. Dots of its tip spring out of the dark, barren twigs. Outside a cool rain knocks on the doors of seeds stirring in their husks. She sips from some hot, bitter tea, adds thorns to some roses. The china painter goes to the window again - breeze nods a plum branch. Pulling on her coat and hat, she becomes the rain's canvas. It bursts on her - china has no such odors as the soaked spring earth.