Koan
By Sarah Nicholson
we meet
in a field.
here
drinking bancha tea
at five
each morning.
I am not happy
until lunchtime.
there is no
silence.
Bird, rustle
and breath,
laughter and stick,
the light of note
that falls
and is gone
into the sea of it.
who hears the sound is the sound.
who is wood hammer
cracking against the mountain?
bird. cracking wood.
ice. cracking heart
we meet.