Sunday afternoon.
I give myself a pedi-
cure and take a walk.
Low tide. Sun on the
mudflats. The horizon bright
with the sound of geese.
As Zhuangzi says, this
is also a that. Nothing
compares with the Il-
lumination of
the Obvious. Haiku and
Zen go together.
February gray.
Stones, water, horizon, sky.
Low tide. For now, I’m
glad I wasted years
on the reception of Lu
Ji, that old yuyan
on the true artist
who expecting the prince sits
at home stark naked.
By the icy edge
of the cove two geese stretched their
necks and honked loudly.
Whatever it meant
it was an improvement on
the poem I had
been thinking, thinking
when I started walking. I
walked on quite at peace.
About half way to
the other side gulls ride the
waves, laughing, sobbing.
I join another
old man leaning into the
cold wind off the cove.
At last we agree
there’s no difference between
gull cry and white-cap.
They’re back, the sparrows
in the Gulf station over-
hang. Above idling
cars their raucous songs
cascade in polyphonies.
Let’s hope it truly
is Spring not a thaw
to be followed by snow or
precocious summer.
When I get to the
Bay I see it’s colored the
same shade as the sky,
which cannot be true.
It’s periwinkle blue. On-
ly the Dao is the
same everywhere.
It’s such a common blue, high
and low, and so true.
The duck at the end
of the distance today, in
the middle of the
bay, was the only
one. It opened the space of
the cove like a door.
Getting lost like that
on a walk makes exercise
the soul’s own workout.
I’m in their midst be-
fore I see the grazing geese.
We share the soft shoul-
der, we share the snow,
dirty and crusty now. They
don’t look up, I look
down, startled they are
there. This makes a difference
to me, not to them.
I take photograpghs
to document the moment.
Certain things shed a
strange light. Take this duck.
I do a double take, I’m
thrown over the i-
mage in the cove. The
cracked cement sky says, “No, it
is the duck’s dark shine.”
Side by side twin black
plastic lawn chairs sit in the
snow, not a flake on
them. The sun is bright,
the snow fresh. See forms create
expectations, some
of which go unful-
filled. One possibility
is this photograph.
Another is, I
sit down. It’s like a city
bench in the village.
Whatever. I was
bored, I’m no longer bored, this
walk has been special.
As I make tea at
the end of a busy day—
the rain turned to snow—
I watch the snow fall.
The tea bag turns the water
darker and darker.
I’m breathing in through
my mouth eight counts, out through my
nose four counts. Yes: Life
is motion, and mo-
tion seeks its several ends.
One being my tea.
