Nests
Say something in response. Yun Men, case 14, Blue Cliff Record Three perfect days of sun, not hot, not windy. It draws me out to the edges of myself and then evaporates them; skin alive with its touch, step by step each foot kisses the ground and the ground kisses back. Roses open after being stalled in bud for weeks; as I sit working they send a waft of perfume so strong it’s like a tap on the shoulder. Then as forecast, from the south, rain mixed with snow falls heavily all night, straight down, chilly twin of the subtropical downpours of my childhood. Later, cold wind blows everything around; it breaks young branches and brings down dead wood. Trees don’t mind the buffeting but animals don’t like it – prey can’t hear predators; predators can’t smell prey. It feels like being yelled at. The garden is disorderly with happiness of things growing in the rain that goes on and on