By His Image Which is Not Reflected in the Pond

Today, says the I Ching, a time of darkness draws to a close
and it hasn't, he thinks, even been so dark. On the phone, she says
we have a knack at bad timing and he hears her and he laughs. It's a joke.
Everyday, he thinks, every day is the practice, and the ants climb his arms to his neck.
Everyday, he thinks, every day is the practice, and he exhales, he inhales,
he gets past. Tomorrow's pond and today's pond are the same,
but tomorrow's pond does not exist. Get it? He sits far enough back from the edge
so that he doesn't upon his face reflect. In love with himself,
disillusioned but still, he counts the birds he can't name.
One, two, three. A friend wants to take him fishing, a friend says,
today, he thinks that that sounds pretty great.