Year of the rooster

Who comes from the southeast
carrying quiet threats?

Who comes from the north
wielding a stone of compassion?

Where I stand in the yard
staking a persimmon sapling,

a lash of wind feels like
the tip of an oncoming army.

Who comes from the east
flapping broad, inky wings?

I hurry without showing my hurry
into the labyrinth of my nest.

My dearest treasure hides as one
crystal in a handful of salt.

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