Jingyang Ridge · Canon
The flag in front of the inn -- Three bowls, and no crossing the ridge -- still shakes in the wind. Wu Song slaps the table for more, eighteen bowls in a row. The innkeeper points at the notice on the door, voice thin: There is a white-browed tiger on Jingyang Ridge now. It has already killed twenty or thirty big men. Better rest, guest, and go at dawn with company. Wu Song lifts his staff, all wine: If there really is a tiger, I still cross. The sun is already west of the door. Stay, or go up the ridge -- it is this step.