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.