Excitement is not joy;
the flare of the bright red leaves
signals their imminent falling.
Sit at the pier’s end.
The still pond is not flare;
the lake is too big, too easily disturbed
even by the rain falling with the sound of a thousand bells;
the layers of obscuring cloud above are foreign to one another:
mismatch shades, at enmity, they glide away in opposite directions.