| A rabbit has stopped on the gravel driveway: imbibing the silence, you stare at spruce needles: there’s no sound of a leaf blower, no sign of a black bear; a few weeks ago, a buck scraped his rack against an aspen trunk; a carpenter scribed a plank along a curved stone wall. You only spot the rabbit’s ears and tail: when it moves, you locate it against speckled gravel, but when it stops, it blends in again; the world of being is like this gravel: you think you own a car, a house, this blue-zigzagged shirt, but you just borrow these things. Yesterday, you constructed an aqueduct of dreams and stood at Gibraltar, but you possess nothing. Snow melts into a pool of clear water; and, in this stillness, starlight behind daylight wherever you gaze. Copyright © 2016 by Arthur Sze. Used with permission of the author. |
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