Hovering over still pebbles in flowing water,

the mind clutches on to thought after thought,

lest it should fall and be food, for the fish of awareness.

The Shepherd collects his flock of thoughts

and sends them bleating down the road,

piteously, to the sharp awareness of the Butcher’s knife.

Making its nest upon a moving cloud,

is it surprising that the bird has lost its precious eggs?