Notes from a Sunday Morning Walk in Autumn

Amid the glowing foliage, sparse, red and rusting leaves hang on the Sakura trees. At the edge of a small dark, still pond an old man unsteadily playing ‘Ode to Joy’ on a silver horn. Sitting on a rock below him, a little boy, his grandson, is reflected, holding a fishing pole. Overhead, the azure sky, the giggling trill of a hawk, sunshine. The splendors of the day, the season, enrobe me.

A flash of blue darts at the stream. Is it, was it – all of a sparkle, a trice, – a kingfisher?

A pair of white herons flap across this blue Okayama sky, the hills laid out before me, all decked in gold brocade. Something softly breaks in me that reminds me of exultation. Whether or not it has meaning, it is beautiful, this world, this here and now, and I think/thank God.

Gingko leaves
Have fallen now.
A band is floating
Upon the river,

Kintsugi Tea Bowl



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