Rain this morning was unexpected, although it came according to predictions.
In the same way, I can’t decide if it’s cold or warm or neither.
So I just attend to my poems, in between errands, an appointment or two. On my lap the cat snores. Window panes rattle with vigorous traffic.
Word arrives requesting chants for one of the elders in our White Plum lineage, Daido Loori Roshi, who is near death, which in this deadline world always comes according to predictions, but is unexpected all the same.