(773–819)
Snowy River
THE birds have vanished
from a thousand mountains.
On a thousand trails,
not a single human sign.
A little boat,
a bamboo hat and cloak—
the old man, alone,
fishing the snowy river.
[S.H.]
The Old Fisherman
THE old fisherman sleeps under a western cliff.
At dawn, he boils river water and burns bamboo.
When the sun burns off the mist, there’s not a soul in sight,
only the creak of his oars in green water under green hills
where the wide, pale sky and rolling river merge.
Clouds above the cliffs drift wherever they will.
[S.H.]