March. The biting chill of early spring still lingers. Fine rain falls in profusion, nourishing a land long-parched. Beyond the city, the air carries the scent of earth. Nameless wildflowers and grasses cover the hillsides and plains, drinking greedily of the rain. This must be their childhood, like ours, brimming with happiness. An aged farmer, wearing a bamboo hat, leads his old water buffalo across the fields, through the streams, and into the misty rain.