When I stepped out to cry this morning it was raining.
Several camellia blossoms had fallen from their different communities; one of them had landed upside-down in a bucket of old rainwater. It had been a white blossom, but by now it had turned to rust.
The Buddha's head was all shiny and wet.
I don't know what any of this means. All I know is that the things I can't see are the things I'm seeing.