by Victoria Crawford
Scattering mango scraps,
forest monk hears leaves rustle
with attention. Above, parrots croon,
gibbons drool for the sweet fruit.
In a broad leaf knocked groundward
by monkeyshines,
he wraps cold rice
and tucks it into the shoulder bag
with bowl, second robe
soft-worn to sunset orange tissue,
and small buddha book,
nesting.
Season change is his call to depart
animal trails and tree hanging orchids.
Awake to the shade/light shift on his skin,
he joins a road.
Sparrows call out.
In the village, a young mother
nudges the child nestling at her side
drops a jackfruit into the monk’s bowl
before they kneel for blessing words.
Seeing his dusty feet,
silent testimony to miles,
she offers a pumpkin seed packet.
He touches the child’s head.
Each step, heel-toe, travels
earth to heaven.
Breeze rustles his soft-worn robes,
plops overripe dragonfruit
groundward. He squats to spy ants
scrambling: movement and stillness,
he nests in the kindness of nature
in the nature of kindness.
