"Kensho"
A man on a hill watching three crows. From where he stood near the crest, there spread before him a landscape of winter Oaks, and Maples, and scattered Cedars and Pines, resting beneath a building mantle of new year snow. He watched them one by one bear into his perception of that snowy scene a centeredness of spirit; making their way from no particular snow-rimmed tree to another. A beautiful dance across the tops of the trees. He smiled, recognizing "no effort".
Crows, trees, and new snow.
A fine dance in black and white.
Awareness; yes; or no?
They were like black winged monks, raucous yet so very unconcerned, settling into the monastery of the moment, a maple near where he stood. Smiling at the dichotomy of their mischeivous nature and this regal air, he was glad to see the crows, these old acquaintances. He smiled watching each drop onto its airy throne, and fluff into cocky royalty. He saw the essence of a fine watercolor.
The cawing of crows.
Music in a snowy woods.
How do I paint this?
Turning back to the hillside path, he pulled his collar higher against the slanting snow, and was once more lost in that winter scene. An owl sailed effortlessly through the snow speckled darkening of the evening woods. Gliding across the trail below him. He knew this old lady too; knew she had been drawn out early by her intuitive reckoning of the harsh night to come. He again stopped, quietly playing his non-role within that predators serene concentration.
A winter drama.
The iron grip of an owl's will.
Life or death the same.
He wondered what small thing; rabbit, mouse, or bird, would give itself completely into a confrontation with the indistractable focus of the owl's intent. The life or death of each so interwoven as to be of a single cloth. He stood immersed in the clarity that lies beneath the soft focus perceptions of fading winter light. In time, he continued down through the forest, through the coming dusk, and lessening snow to a cleared pasture. To a view of the western horizon, and a long thin line of sky exposed by the passing storm; alive with the colors of sunsets . He stood again transcendent and yet as one with this place. And it was at this moment from behind him, high on the hill; that there came floating down, the gleefully raucous, cawing, announcement; of the now less than pious crows' discovery of the owl. She will be the focus of the days last gossip.
Three crows dancing,
high branch maple dance,
crow fun harassment dance.
One owl dancing,
not quite dusk dance.
Meditation dance.
Drumbeat wing dance.
Flashing Kensho,
zazen forest exhale.
Remembering....
one
two
three . . .
"Three Crows"
I saw three deer in the river bottom field
two gray does and a yearling.
They had come for the corn scattered around
the remnants of October's yield.
The frost was heavy untouched by the sun.
The river was rolling with mist.
Three heads flew up when I stepped on a twig.
A sound like the bolt of a gun.
The old grandmother doe searched for my eyes.
>Had I cut off their path to the trees?
The river's high bank was at their backs;
a thirty foot jump from the sky.
I didn't own a gun, or ever a reason,
for harming those deer that morning;
but all they knew was a man had come too close,
and all men go insane with the season.
If it had been spring, or even late June,
they would have just stood testing the air,
but the Season makes deer as crazy as men
they'll spook at the sight of the moon.
I stood stone still; knowing they'd seen me;
but they looked so fine in that light.
They were standing together looking me over
waiting for their fear to set them free of me.
Suddenly the yearling got his cue from the spooky ole does,
and they danced on that field like spirits;
with the river quiet and rolling with mist;
they stopped, and I thought they had froze.
Then, with quivering flanks, but a mind that knows,
in slow motion surrender they jumped,
and I swear for the first time ever I saw
the wings black and flashing of crows.
***
-lg
