Tuesday, October 21, 2014


The unwinking eyebutton of the landstork;
The beak’s polished ochre
Combs the yellowed grass for prey:
The moment does not have meanings –
The moment is the meaning.

A shock of its neck to the ground –   
An eyeful of white whooping wing –
A spasm of the wind –  
Is the only memory of violence.

The rest, like before, is a zen koan.
The bird slowly wading the sky cloud by floating cloud.

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