Upon the Silence

The heavens leaned gently

over a quiet valley,

where an old monk

sat beside a narrow creek,

his legs folded,

his breath unhurried,

his thoughts

carried away

like autumn leaves upon the water.

Night gathered

without sound.

The stars awakened,

one by one,

until the sky became

an endless garden

of light.

The little creek

received them all.

Every constellation

found its reflection.

The moon rested

upon the moving water,

never fearing

that the current

would carry it away.

The monk remained still.

He did not seek

to understand the heavens.

He simply allowed

their silence

to enter his own.

A cool breeze wandered

through the pines.

The cedar bowed.

The reeds whispered.

Somewhere in the darkness,

an owl offered

a single note

to the sleeping forest.

Nothing was separate.

The stars touched the creek.

The creek embraced the earth.

The earth cradled the monk.

The monk breathed

with the night.

Sky and water

became one reflection.

Stillness and movement

became one song.

The watcher

and the watched

quietly disappeared.

Hours passed

like clouds

crossing an unseen moon.

No one measured them.

No one needed to.

Then,

far beyond the eastern ridge,

the first pale light

began to gather.

The stars withdrew

without sorrow.

The creek released

their shimmering reflections

back into the morning.

The monk opened his eyes,

though they had never

truly been closed.

He rose,

bowed to the water,

and walked into the dawn,

leaving no footprints

upon the silence.

For the heavens

had never been above him,

nor the earth below him.

For one timeless night,

they had all been

the same boundless sky.