Monoliths glow in the moonlight. The Monk’s humble hut
is hidden
in the fog, Stonehenge, boulders, thirteen moon columns
are stonewashed, blurred. Only a giant footmark is visible
on rocky courtyard, collecting dewdrops.
It is silent. The octogenarian monk
watches butterflies
swarming out of the surrounding forest—
Shaw tails, Emperors—
ascending upward toward the temple.
This time of year, they come here to die.
