1 February 2011. Fog at dawn, blurred trees, quiet.
Sun breaking through, mid-morning now. Seeing Po Chü-i's great poem, on a borrow'd screen, code unknown--his noble seven-character lines garbled into smallish black boxes, on the diagonal--each containing a question mark...a few letters--random?--scattered in between. But nothing is random, the boxes are not really black, the question is always an answer...and we are everywhere the goose, and the freer.
At one moment, wings lighter now, flight...
* * *
(Po Chü-I, Setting a Migrant Goose Free, David Hinton translation)
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