I meditate by a stubborn stone on the creek bank

Like the peace of grass and trees rooted in the mountains and fields

The stream is the Zen verse softly recited by the earth
Flowing gently, neither fast nor slow
Winding over the patterns of pebbles
Winding over the remnants of worldly wrinkles

Birdsong is the sacred sound carried by the wind
Sometimes distant, sometimes near
Perched on leaf tips, it shatters into star-like specks of light
Falling onto the water surface, it ripples into circles of clarity and calm
Having no origin, nor a destination
It is the clearest echo between heaven and earth

Sunlight filters through the gaps in the branches and leaves
Scattering soft, warm rays
Kissing the brow bones, drifting over the shoulders
Embraced by the gentle breeze
It brushes lightly through my hair
A tender Zen moment delivered by the mortal world

I sit quietly, without words or speech
Listening to the babbling creek, a resonance of blood and earth
Listening to the rise and fall of bird calls, a harmony of soul and nature

Sacredness is not the sutras sealed in dust
Nor the distant chimes in temples
It is this moment—
The softness of the wind, the warmth of the light, the murmur of water
It is me and all things
Looking at each other peacefully, year after year