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I think of the cove

as the horizon of my

wandering. The float

where cormorants dry-

out between dives. The rest of

their lives so other.

No float today. A

buoy and a passing duck and

me shapeless, restless.

Not the trees or earth

but the promise of Fall rains

in the scent of it

I keep my window

open when I go to bed

You say it’s nothing

I have known deserts

I dream of the first rains and

sudden poppy fields

Basho had Saiguo,

I have Basho. So we end

as hermits. We watch

the moon rise in the

Autumn leaves, wandering up

and down. Children of

the absolutes, we

know enough of hell to let

things flow from beyond.

The quiet in their

eyes as they help each other

winterize their boats.

They recognize me

as the old guy who stops and

looks in every weather.

Of emptinesses,

there’s empty, there’s full of grace.

Hard to tell apart.

Then I see the ducks

sitting in the mud at low

tide and almost quack.

I kick colored leaves

under the bare trees on my

way to the Bay. What

kills me about Fall

is not the leaves but the light.

Behind dark glasses

I take in inex-

austible life and feel my

own sweet finitude.

Leaves curling on the

trees, greens giving way to pinks,

yellows, dark reds. I

call out “Heavenly

Reservoir!” full and empty,

quoting Chuang Tzu.

It is and is not

what the master had in mind,

his wild card mind but

the dark difference

in my bright analogy’s

exfoliations.

A day of drizzle.

The sun made no appearance.

Now at teatime I

brew a cup and pull

apart a tangerine, which

had been a bright spot

on my desk all day.

In my mouth small explosions

mock the occasion.

The ducks in the cove

cross paths without touching and

keep their voices down.

I can’t not watch. Watch-

ing opens a space of trans-

cendence in my life.

Not much going on

on this quiet Fall Sunday.

One cormorant suns

on his private deck,

one duck surfs the glassy cove.

The isness of things

goes unquestioned as

is, obvious, glorious

in its otherness.

Enjoy your day, as

I leave the shop. The edge of

day in her smile cuts

me up, like Zhuangzi’s

master butcher’s blade. She means

nothing. Basho named

himself after the

tattered leaves of the basho

tree he sat under.