I invite us to gather in the silence and emptiness of this moment, just watching thoughts rise and pass. And then pray into this poem, while listening for “the bell of evening skies”.
Walking stick in hand, I watch snow clear
Ten thousand clouds and streams banked up
Woodcutters return to their simple homes
And soon a cold sun sets among risky peaks.
A wildfire burns among the ridgeline grasses
Scraps of mist rise, born of work and fire
On the road back to a mountain monastery
I hear it struck: the bell of evening skies.
– Chia Tao, T’ang Dynasty
