Waning gibbous moon,
 
guide the pilgrim on her way
 
to the spring river.

 
 
 

How many blossoms

will the raging river sweep

to the distant sea?

 
 
 

Last day of the month—
 
perhaps the river will thaw
 
sooner than we think.

 
 
 

Although I am old,
 
the river is much older—
 
sing this song, north wind!

How many autumns

has the raging river swept

to the distant sea?

 
 
 

That thirsty sparrow
 
thinks it can drink every drop
 
of the deep river!

 
 
 

Where the river bends,
 
cottonwood leaves turn yellow—
 
first day of autumn.

 
 
 

Sizzling afternoon—
 
into the river a crow
 
drops like Icarus.

 
 
 

Nothing stays the same—
 
pine cones, dog bones, river stones
 
crumble into dust.

 
 
 

Even as I sleep,
 
the river keeps on flowing
 
to the restless sea.