The valley is a crescent moon of fog.
Great columns of drizzle, Corinthian piers,
Tower down the mountainsides.
The bark of the cedars weeps quietly, fragrant.
An owl murmurs in the distance.
At last, the tiny cook stove is hot.
I savor my eggs and white tea.
There is not a sound, not even the snap of a twig.
I stop thinking, and end my problems.
- Paul Mann