Making tea

I make my pot of tea with water fresh from the river and tea from the mountains. I see the moon in the ladle when I draw the clear cold water. Water, darkness, nicely measured. As it boils, foam rises to the surface. When I pour a cup, it sounds like wind in the pine trees. It’s hard to limit myself to three cups when I still want to taste the spring. It gets to be night. The city is quiet.