The Mountain Monk

The tree doesn’t talk. The grass doesn’t smile. Only the wind whispers, in a low and grumpy voice. Time flows, clear and concise, in a stream from the forgotten past to the empty future.

 
How many years have lost? The monk doesn’t care. When life has no objective, time doesn’t matter.

 
The sun passes through a small crack on the roof of his humble hovel and cast a focused spot of light on the floor. The door had been torn away in the rainstorm of the previous summer. It doesn’t matter; nothing ever comes through the door, at least not in the past.

 
Rustling from the bushes outside, then the sound of some light padded paws hopped over the newborn grass. A small animal hesitates beyond the threshold.  Observing, it thinks the motionless monk is dead. There shall be no harm to venture inside.

 
The monk opens one eye in his meditation. A large white rabbit with dirty patches of gray fur, meaty and clumsy, shall be a perfect lunch prey.