footeprint

i stole a glance that day knowing i could take away more. that monk a paragon of equipoise humbling me with his meekness. my intentions so obvious to him so intrusive. what must he have thought pilfering his impression to call my own. a thief in my own right.

the monk sits poised fixated on his callused toes yellowed and twisted in age emulative of the forest's vines. he feigns indifference to the cold observer. the foreign eye catches audibly stealing away an instant to be recalled by voyeurs far removed from this tranquil setting beneath the delicate contrasts of the elder's holy shrine. the soft murmering of a nearby stream adds a melodic harmony to the voice of the breeze lifted down from heavenly pillars as the acrid scent of some distant land drifts spirit like breath of ambrosia. the thief lowers his gaze steps back content with his pilfer. the ageless monk coughs a br

the interloper opens his eye with mechanical precision focuses. the aged monk an owl amongst men stands subjected to the metered gaze. nervous grin all but toothless he shuffles eyes dropping like overripe chestnuts. out of reflex the thief blinks exposing his eagerness to recall the old ascetic's face an image of unknown suffering and denial. not quite an eremite the holy man remains poised. contemplating meditating or perhaps silently protesting. the ornate temple looms in abstract oblivious to the thievery its vibrant greens seeming no less verdant its melancholy blues no more austere.