Night, straining toward cool. The cats on the porch startle at my approach then slide into the dark. A quiet house. The room’s single lamp.
Night, back porch. Crickets, frogs, faint music from a house. A weight of words unsaid to people far away presses down, like an unseen hand.
Night. The house grumbles and sighs in its sleep while the rain-furred dark presses against the window panes.
make use of her refuge
In the dark, absence is as fearful as presence. What lurks in the corners may just as well be gone when we check, fingers trembling and out-stretched; without absolutes, where will we hide now?
Chinese and English pp. 54-55 here.
Those who read Chinese will note that what Red Pine has translated as “refuge” is literally “safe hidden place,” which is how I read it when responding.
5 a.m. I decide against a predawn nap. When else will the whir of last night’s dreams at large in the dark be the only sound aloft?
The quiet of others’ sleep, solitude only after light’s out: in this dark night belly, finally I unfold, awake, begin to breath.