I bend down
with my camera
in one hand
spellbound
by the bead of water
as it quivers
on the lip
of hollow pipe,
drips
into the stone bowl—
a tsukubai
fed by water
sleeved through
bamboo.

Not washing my hands
nor rinsing my mouth,
not preparing
for ceremonial tea,

alone with time
slackened
to a drip
of a drop into
pooled water,

I click. Wait
with the patience
of a sparrow click
for the seed
click to overflow
the feeder again—
for the click
droplet to dissolve
the stillness.

A friend led me here once.
To be fed.
I return—
each time, each click
a sacred
cleansing.