It's Sunday after the 1-day sitting.

Dogen reminds us:

“The spring breeze and the autumn moon of five or ten years, unbeknownst to us, have the ring of emancipation beyond sound and form. This voice is not known to the self, not understood by the self. You should learn to treasure each moment of sustained practice. Do not assume that not to speak is useless. It is entering the monastery, leaving the monastery. The bird's path is the forest. The entire world is the forest, the monastery.”

and here's what I remembered:

A lifetime spent mapping
the intricate surface of a dust
mote. Swallowed over and over
again by your own ears. Way out
past the edge of town, the mountains

are singing their mountainous songs.
Styrofoam cups and candy wrappers
jump and jitter in the middle
of the street, while a whole gang
of Djangos strum Stormy Weather.

Secretly, it’s your birthday and
of course you’re the last to know
but that praying mantis clinging
there under the window ledge
seems to be onto something.