Dark at midnight.

The moon brings pale respite.

Pájaros perched in árboles,

Arguing over migration.

Stone cut seats

Awashed in the creek.

Woes and words

As hollow as the bamboo shoots

Fencing us in.

Rock manicured sands

Surround us.

Tended by soothing hands,

Raked but not sown,

By old leathered men.

Water stilled in bowls,

Yet still daily we grow.

Though decades wisdom shows

In our rings and roots,

Branched out beyond

Where we thrive,

Not with knowledge…

But in the safety of staying,

Bent as our makers choose.

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