People with the bottom of the bucket fallen out immediately find total trust.
First light breaks after five. And the sun dies into night after nine.
In between, the Great Silence pervades everything.
In between, the long sunlit days seem like forever, while the deep blue above pushes down clear. You can’t escape. Look up. The hawk wants its prey. Pray it ain’t you.
Look down. The rattler just swallowed a lizard. And, with enough time, he might digest the mountain.
Fresh breezes brush back dry golden sunlit grasses on the hillsides. A Ducati screams on Skyline.
And when the sun dies into blood-soaked orange and the Pacific sighs and the arc of darkness holds the Super Moon, there are no guarantees. Tomorrow, you might hear the bell at Jikoji.
Phoenix Cloud sits straight and strong under black oak, elm and bay.
Of Mere Being
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze distance.
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
Wallace Stevens, 1954