The wind shifted suddenly, and the blue patches above had all but disappeared.
The great mirror of the lake, reflecting the wind and sky, changed too, its previously glasslike surface broken up into billions of shards of silvery scales moving together like the pliant skin of a huge undulating fish. The fish swam on and on without destination, through an ocean of sky that somehow fallen to earth. A soft click, and then another, almost imperceptible, and yet somehow as fully loud as the sharp crack and rumble of the shifting ice high up on the wall. Snow began to fall into the bowl of ice and water and trees. Each flake fell directly, without pause, to its place of destiny . Click! Each flake fell with a distinct sound that was painted on the white canvas of silence, a silence that was not a mere blankness, but that softly held and assimilated the roar of the descending wind over the wall and the lower growl of the surging creek, which poured over polished round boulders into the silvery lake.Learn to hold everything softly, like the silence and the way and infant holds onto a finger. Learn to hold so softly that you are not quite sure what is within your grasp. When you can hold everything this way, things, feelings, and people - so softly you forget their names, that you even forget what those things are, then the silence that is the canvas, and the interval on which all things are painted and composed, will hold you softly, embrace you, permeate you until your very limbs become indistinct from all the other paintings and compositions.