Monk in Hiking Boots

He is
walking the white line
his arm a repetitious arc
sounding
a single tone
timed to the pace
of hiking-booted feet
treading the pavement.

Saffron robes have grayed
over long meditative miles
witnessed by curious commuters
riding the pendulum away
from his purposeful daily counterpoint
and the freedom held in rhythmic ritual;
how the mind stills and gathers
in the swinging blur of hand and stick.

I roll the window down
seeking precious solace
as I hurtle past, knowing
he walks for me too.
I want to stop the car
and fall in behind;
feel the timeless drum,
the stillness of salvation.