45.  Ura Fuji Viewed from Minobu River

This trail has no end, but a constant roar,

As white water roils and rattles the small rocks,

Thrashing over the boulders, crammed into the channel

By these sharp crags of lava, and the thin dunes,

Pounded free of weeds by the passing feet.

Absence grows strong, as the obscuring cloud

Climbs out of the heavy gray, a referee

Stepping between these intruders and the peaks,

Taking attention away from the solid forms,

Modeling nothing, making emptiness a plus.

The volcano threw up lava so fast it cooled

In motion, still shaking, its spit arrested,

The holes and clots making such sharp shadows

That we think we are reading characters,

A text like the one our mind chatters

On a long voyage, when we just keep going.

Silence, like awareness at the top of our head,

Awakens on this path, as vacant as Mount Fuji.