Nothing To Do, Nowhere To Go
-after the T'ang poets
At my feet, even the water spider
rests, unmoving on the still surface,
his eight feet dimpling the water’s skin.
In the distance, on the other side,
a rowboat cradles a dozy fisherman.
The afternoon hums on the edge of sleep.
What should I be doing?
Surely work calls—chores, family?
The past is gone, the future
a dream of colors and light.
I’ll take my cue from that duck
nestled on the embankment,
head tucked under wing,
one eye barely open, tilted up
at the hawk-empty sky.