A deep drone

from the hollows of contentment

awakens the walls.

Young monks follow that songline, repeating —

reverent reverberations draw

the early morning orange hues

into the gompa.

Leading the mind to breath’s anchor,

snapping the elastic of time,

the high-frequency filter

stills the sand swirls of thoughts,

letting the dust devils of clutter

settle and fall,

until discord finds nowhere to resonate —

unfolding

into the mellow hum of lightness.

Scintillating pearls reveal themselves

from the past —

the sculptor shapes perception

with the precision of his chisel

into jewels.

Time becomes malleable,

releasing anchors,

the silky membrane slides away

as my mind peels through —

every sound, only itself —

an orange-hued spaciousness —

A woman hunches over,

waters her small plot of vegetables,

her child in her footsteps,

terraces stepping up the hill behind.

The koel’s cooing, like the drone,

weaves with the morning light

in the valley,

echoing with the monastery on the hill.

The hazy sky reveals distant peaks —

receding silhouettes

of blue and grey mountains.

Squatting in the gompa,

with a smile,

the pearls roll down —