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by Nels Hanson Another evening trapped in history, again the present devouring the past, always a future biting its own tail. The kingdom is dissolving, mobs in the streets, hate on every face. At least a river still flows close by. Through the window you can hear its hush below the sound of crickets. Another cup? No, my head is clear. Wistful, lost, by one candle flame they dip their brushes, Tu Fu first line, Li Po the second, alternating, a last poem long as a painted scroll, a stream and mountainside, falling water, old pines gripping bare rock, the ancient bridge made of bamboo, a fisherman and a traveling scholar not noticing the three passing cranes. Copyright 2021. All rights reserved.
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