Sunday, December 6, 2020

hidden behind the leaves


woodcutter talking rough and sparse, if world is words how meagre this man's, but a rice ball and pickled radishes not trivial, no, he filled my belly with nothing to say, grunts as through the dank ravine we walked, smuggler's path, and as foothills become filled with light, master ko, once again alone, squats to rub the flat granite boulder free of grit, turning ink stick round and round through spits of water, taking up brush of fine white goat hair, he touches bristles to ink and brush tip to stone and

chi appears, bit of rice, steaming; more better, yes, than

no rice, empty belly

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