Seven Silent Monks

It is cool in the mountains in the blue hour. Damp, magical, choired with birdsong. The dew has settled on the grass, drips off the vestal, white orchids that spot the path to the village below. Orange Buddhist robes skim over wet grass. The monks form a bobbing line of shaved heads, their shivering stomachs full of prayers. Bare feet walk as one. When they reach the village, they will collect alms to feed themselves and their fellow monks waiting at the monastery— this day, day of days, every day.  Warm bread, congee, pickled vegetables. Soon there will be steaming bowls, cold spring water in metal cups on a plain oak table. 

dessert
a leftover slice
of moon

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MacQueen’s Quinterly, Issue 29, August 20, 2025

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