one
rain falling from above
alights on leaves
pausing for a moment
falling to the ground
little yellow bird
flits through the drops
chirping a secret song
swoops beneath a bush
rain bird and bush
i am all of these
yet nothing
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I'll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase each other, doesn't make any sense. - Rumi
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