Through the north gate rise jagged mountains. Through the south gate lies the deep blue sea. Who knows for sure where Joshu has gone. In the abandoned courtyard hens and chickens scratch the earth. My left hand lies beside me on the pillow.
Snowflakes drift through the open window.
In this dream of winter embers and cinders intermingle. A discarded glove gathers dust at the bottom of the stairs. The National Teacher's Seamless Monument Ah, those old masters, they can extract your heart with a single phrase. And your own heart beating faintly in the wing-beats of a sparrow. While seated in zazen small wings grow from the tips of your elbows lifting you high into the air, setting you down on South Mountain before the serpent.