A crow clinging to a reed stabs
at little fish. The lake holds
its setting sun a moment longer
than the horizon. Mosquitoes prick
what bleeds. A timed fountain
ceases plashing and violet evening descends.
This moment of fading day,
after all the returning cars stop ticking,
waits, suspended. The turn of a breath, from inhale
to exhale, a moment of stillness before the blow.
No sutra, surah, or psalm. No meditation. No prayer.