Like some storybook poem,
The stream running through our fields
talks to itself of its journey.
Grumbling over waterfalls, wind-fallen trees
and the stumbling-stones of hidden rocks.
I move three branches and a rock;
freeing a winter tangle of old leaves and silt
to drift on towards the river,
its waters old and dingy, stained coffee by its toil.
Akiko says that I have altered the face of the earth.
I answer:
“This stream existed before me,
and it will continue after.
I have not altered what it is,
where it has come from
or where it is going.”
She dissents: “There are no unconnected actions —
Mu-i, mu-jo: even water flows in a circle.”