walking stick swings in steady rhythm
the tired monk walks the path
up and over gnarled pine roots
and broken bedrock
heeding the mossy patches
just a bit further up the high bluff
stops
pours tea
breathes in woodland air
takes in lakes, a creek, a beaver pond
one lone island
a red fox wanders
out of the junipers
looks for a moment
smells the air
turns back
the way she came
two kits follow
the monk sips
one more taste of green tea
pick up his walking stick
jogs down the hill
laughing
