The Eastern Garden

by Idan Cohen

There were no pandas anymore.

Lin-Fu made his way through the thick vegetation with ease, his shaven scalp glinting in the sun. There were no pandas behind him, and no pandas in front of him.

Lin-Fu found this saddening.

He hummed a segment of Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps to himself, stripping a piece of bamboo from its leaves and twirling it between his fingers. The bamboo was spreading at an amazing rate; he would have to inform the rangers.

A glance behind him showed no pandas. To the sides and in front; no
pandas. He repressed a sigh.

Whistling the Shaft theme between his teeth, Lin-Fu walked on and
out of the tiny reservation that had once been Tibet, and back to his
day job.

Behind him, the wind rustled the leaves in the hot afternoon sun.
There were no pandas.