Tonight the moon is whole.
Day birds rest in thickets.
I wish my mind were like them,
peaceful under her glow,
but it is a hungry owl,
and my thoughts are mice.
"Whatever you do at this time,"
a monk said to me once,
"is increased for the rest of the month."
If I stop hunting for things,
I fear starvation.
My home is warm and quiet,
but on the television,
the battle of Stalingrad rages,
frozen, heartless, and deafening.
Outside, there may be many owls,
but few of us venture out to know.
I continue to write, past moonset.
For that, I will be irritable tomorrow.
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