"It's
not like counting sheep," the man said to the boy.
"It's a stream of awareness,
With logs flowing down it,
Obsessively consistent,
Innately correct,
Overwhelmingly calming."
The boy sat
on the bank,
He tried hard to focus.
Like trying to look at the same spot,
While flying down the parkway-
Once again,
He failed.
When night
came,
The fire smoked through the trees.
The fish smelled of burning oil and spices,
And the ground got harder.
In darkness,
The bug's bit,
And the wind slowly whipped his skin.
Still, he sat,
Patiently,
Waiting,
For what?
He sensed
clarity coming,
Yet didn't know what that meant.
He felt pain,
But not the kind he could explain.
When the fire
burned out,
He saw something glowing,
Slowly moving down the current,
And his muscles loosened.
Sitting there,
The beauty of thought.
The powerlessness of muscles,
Yet control of the mind.
