In the center of the village
seven dusty paths converge.

An old man lives
in a thatched hut that stands
just to the West.

He watches and listens
as each traveler
completes the journey.

Older than the forest,
more patient than the ocean,
more stately than cranes,
he watches and listens.

"Have I arrived?"
I ask, puzzling.
"Is this the end?
It looks like the beginning!"

The old man chuckles.
In his soft laughter
leaves rustle in ancient oaks,
waves lap the shore,
air hums through the feathers of cranes
    suspended in blue sky.

"It is where you began,"
he says,
"but you are no longer you." 

Text and
image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.