I would like to be somewhere nearer the ocean, but it would be too costly. Perhaps I'm stuck in this place. Too bad. It wasn't so bad when it was more rustic and full of old people, but now it is all commuters and lawns and dogs who bark at every raccoon and skunk and squirrel— and those wild creatures will soon be gone as well, I suspect. I don't recall when I last saw a deer, but it seems months. I am truly tired of this place. It is not mine.
Sunday Verse
Looking For A Monk And Not Finding Him
by Li Po
I took a small path leading
up a hill valley, finding there
a temple, its gate covered
with moss, and in front of
the door but tracks of birds;
in the room of the old monk
no one was living, and I
staring through the window
saw but a hair duster hanging
on the wall, itself covered
with dust; emptily I sighed
thinking to go, but then
turning back several times,
seeing how the mist on
the hills was flying, and then
a light rain fell as if it
were flowers falling from
the sky, making a music of
its own; away in the distance
came the cry of a monkey, and
for me the cares of the world
slipped away, and I was filled
with the beauty around me.