The River's Rhythm

A monk sat by a river, watching the waters flow. A storm had passed, and the trees were bent with the weight of rain. A sparrow lay lifeless at his feet, its wings spread wide as if still soaring through the sky.

The monk’s heart was heavy. He remembered his childhood friend, who had loved to watch sparrows flit among the branches. The friend had passed away years ago, and the monk had never quite let go of the loss.

As the monk meditated by the river, he saw a fallen leaf drift on the water. The river carried it swiftly, and soon it was gone from sight.

"How swiftly it flows," the monk said aloud. "The river takes what it will."

An old hermit appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and sat beside the monk. He had a long white beard and eyes like the depths of the ocean.

The hermit spoke: "The river flows, the sparrow falls, and the trees bend. What remains unchanged?"

The monk thought deeply. He looked at the river, at the sparrow, and at the bent trees. He felt the weight of impermanence, the fleeting nature of all things. Yet he saw the sky reflected in the water, the river's constant flow, and the steadfastness of the earth beneath his feet.

Finally, he replied, "The ground upon which we sit remains unchanged. It is the source of all life, the constant support of all that is."

The hermit smiled and asked, "Is the ground truly unchanged? What lies beneath it, if not the same river that flows, the same earth that shifts, the same roots that grow and decay?"

The monk was silent. He closed his eyes and felt the river's rhythm, heard the whispers of the wind, and sensed the warmth of the earth. In that moment, he found peace.

When he opened his eyes, the hermit was gone, and the sparrow was no longer at his feet. Instead, a single feather rested there, shimmering in the sunlight.