January 21^st, 2024

In love with mountains, I go out my gate,
Then lay aside the staff, rest on a pine root.
Autumn rivers border the broad fields,
Twilight haze parts me from the distant village.
As dew rises, the edges of the grove whiten;
Stars come out and tree tops grow blacker.
I can tell I’ve been sitting here a long time;
The dark moss already bears my print.