A hermit in his hut writes haiku like petalsthat he casts into the river that beginsin the folds of the mountain above him.The petals say nothing of his sorrow, and are lostin the currents, fogs, winds, dark.Time has no mercy, and some things need no mercy.The sinews of the river wrestle gold from the mountain.In the water, we find fear, love, patience, desperationand from these we make adornments for our ears.