One trip to Japan and it's in the blood. I take the long route, past a madrone's smooth skin, a white-necked Mount St. Helens seen through unruly stands of fir is the image of Mt. Fuji with its noble head lopped off.

All mountains eventually take their life, it's in their veins. With that, a crow dives, its raspy craw craw urging me on to the Japanese Garden—where a waterfall stages its plunge into the Lower Pond.

Sitting very often the same problems come up again and again; they seem to be settled, but after a while they reappear. If we look at that negatively, we are discouraged, saying here it is again, the same old thing, but when looked at on the edge of a cold bench, the scent of cedar wafts with my visible breath.


Stones slide forward and hear
Sasquatch say:

"I'm as real
as Balzac was."

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