Buddha Considers the Baraois

The baraois, they tell me it’s called here,
Or used to be called, the sudden gleam

Of mackerel shoaling under a full moon.
A phosphorescent swelling. There, then gone.

Used to be called, they say, because now
There are no fishermen watching for signs

And there’s nobody now, they tell me,
Who walks the cliff at night and knows

How to look for it, or even knows the word.
And I think of those high places I have been

Where nobody now listens for, or knows
The word for that tiny flow of meltwater

From the slope above, that tells the snow leopard
Has paused awhile, then silently passed by.

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