October 31^st, 2019

A Chan hut beneath a pine;
Moss lush, paths indistinct.
Green mountains:
Seen at spring’s end;
Flowing water:
Heard in deep night.
He’s not sitting
On a gaze-at-the-mind-rock;
Perhaps he’s followed
Roused-from-concentration clouds?
Monkeys and apes can’t be asked where he is:
Cliffs and valleys alone in empty twilight.