The propeller plane was flying high above the dragon on the roof of the Confucius Temple

Walking through the streets of Taipei under a sky that threatened a warm, heavy rain, I found myself at the Confucius Temple. It is a sanctuary dedicated to the founding master of Confucianism, a place where one naturally expects a serene, meditative silence. Yet, the atmosphere directly above was anything but tranquil. As it turns out, the temple grounds sit almost precisely beneath the flight path of Songshan Airport, nestled deep within the urban heart of the city. Standing in the courtyard and looking up, the peace was shattered at regular intervals by the deafening roar of aircraft tracing lines across the heavens.

Confucius was a sage who famously chose not to speak of "the paranormal, physical exploits, disorder, or spiritual beings"—preferring the grounded reality of human wisdom. Surely, in his wildest dreams, he could never have anticipated that over two millennia after his passing, colossal iron beasts would relentlessly streak across his sky. It is hard not to feel a pang of sympathy for the Master of Learning; one imagines it must be terribly difficult to lose oneself in a book with such a relentless racket overhead.

As I lingered in the clamorous courtyard, another shape materialized from the edge of the overcast sky. This time, it wasn’t the sleek silhouette of a commercial jet, but a twin-engine turboprop, its dual propellers churning the humid air. It flew surprisingly low—so low that the geometry of its underbelly was starkly defined against the gray clouds. These propeller planes, known for their fuel efficiency and ability to navigate shorter runways, remain the unsung workhorses of domestic routes and island-hopping flights. There was something profoundly utilitarian about this particular iron bird as it coasted with nonchalant ease far above the sweeping, ornate ridges of the temple shrines.

Yet, as it glided past, it did not go unwatched. Perched on the very edge of the tiled roof, someone was tracking its progress with an unblinking gaze: a dragon, sculpted with sharp, frozen claws—an indispensable guardian of traditional Chinese architecture. In myth, the dragon is a sacred deity of the waters, possessing the majestic power to ascend into the heavens and summon the rain. But this dragon, bound to the rooftop, was merely fashioned from baked clay. No matter how deeply it might yearn to take flight and reclaim the sky, it remained utterly immobile. It could do nothing but hold its jaw open in perpetual awe, helplessly watching a triumph of modern engineering soar into a realm it could never reach.