Ching

There’s a cool still pond in the forest,
and in the airy distance, the sound
of wind chimes is the world.

Immediately, I am just that sound, before
any separation into self, sound, world:
ting, ching, tingaling, ching . . .

When I pause to ponder, my pen
stops moving, and a dozen feeding birds
suddenly fly up and scatter in all directions,

as if a chime was struck, everything changed,
and nothing will remain the same — not the birds,
not the world, not this writer staring out the window,

lost in no-thought, resonating slightly, like a fading
sound of wind chimes spreading in murmuring
ripples across the stillness of a forest pond.