There's light cloud, and drizzle round the pavilion,
In the dark yard, I wearily open a gate.
I sit and look at the color of green moss,
Ready for people's clothing to pick up.
Late afternoon like late evening. Dark and misty. It is the misty realms of the Dao. We see but we do not see. For some reason these moments stay with me. The old fence is a testament to the time that has passed. Moments of true consciousness come and go like the tide rushing the shore.