Under the earth are the stones and holding the stones together is the silence. His heart smelling of the cypress tree. The whole valley at dawn sweet with its emptiness. There is a door in the wind, lima bean soup on the stove. Tomorrow begins in the dark. Today is the mountain of what we have become. Surprised to be alive in the abundance of time. Two thousand six hundred and twenty days, four thousand nights another time. The red on the large woodpecker four times in the pine trees. The hoopoe in the chinaberry tree only once. Wang Wei in his loneliness noticing the first raindrops in the light dust. THIS TIMES THAT The silence around the old villa was magnified by the shrilling cicadas. Her soft voice redoubled that stillness. At night the two kinds of owls did not consider each other but together made something. The small owl mewed and the other said dark . . . dark.