hidden behind the leaves

four

dense dark clouds lowering across the wooded slopes him sitting in a dim corner tatami lumpy, smell of damp straw, empty head, open hand, neither yes nor no, naught but illusion, a good morning to breathe. Seeking the perfect inhalation. exhalation, inspiration, ichi  ni  san  shi  go  roku  shichi  hachi  kyu  ju  ichi  ni  san  shi like the ripple of creek eddies and little back splashes over well-rounded stones the moon still on the quiet pond, the white ducks come to feed diving, sleek underwater, rising to breath, breathing in and breathing out like matsuda playing with segovia in the park with his pudgy fingers and old nylon string guitar amongst the pigeons and gulls ise maybe or nikko 1957 or eight so long ago the bamboo bow once strung taut now not, but bending with the exhalation waiting waiting ichi ni san shi until the arrow flies of its own accord who knows where THWOCK!