Friday, April 22, 2005


This poem from the Pima culture works like a Zen koan for me:

Many people have gathered together,
I am ready to start the race,
And, the swallow with beating wings
Cools me in readiness for the word.

Far in the west the black mountain stands.
Around which our racers run at the noon.
Who is this man running with me,
The shadow of whose hands I see?