Unspoken Rhythm

Beneath a sky

strewn with endless fire,

a monk sits—

small,

yet not separate.

The stars do not look down.

They simply burn.

In the tall grass,

a rabbit trembles—

its fear

no less vast

than the night.

Somewhere unseen,

a tiger breathes—

strength coiled

with a quiet knowing.

Above,

a dragon rides the wind—

or perhaps

the wind remembers

how to move.

The monk does not gather

these into thought.

The crane lifts

through still air—

nothing wasted.

The snake bends

without breaking—

time flowing

through muscle and earth.

The mantis waits—

stillness sharper

than motion.

Each life

a gesture

of the same hand.

To take,

to give—

roots drinking rain,

rain returning to sky—

no debt remains

where nothing is owned.

The monk breathes—

not as one man,

but as many forms

sharing a single

unspoken rhythm.

And in that vastness,
nothing is beneath him,
nothing above—

only the quiet turning

of a world

teaching itself

how to be.