Where the Bamboo Grows

In the hush of jade-drenched dawn,

where fog rolls like whispers through hills,

a panda stirs — not quickly, not with urgency,

but with the patience of mountains.

Black ears twitch, white fur still warm

from dreams of forests that remember

every footstep, every leaf chewed in thought.

He moves not as a hunter,

nor as prey.

He simply is.

A creature shaped by slowness,

by stillness,

by the sacred art of waiting.

Bamboo rustles.

The world offers breakfast

and he accepts it

not greedily,

but with gratitude —

each bite a meditation.

Crunch. Chew. Pause.

The rhythm of a life untouched by clocks.

He sits like a monk in a temple of moss,

eyes deep as dusk,

watching birds flit by,

watching time slip through the trees

like wind through fur.

Once, he heard thunder

and did not flinch.

Once, he saw fire

and turned, not out of fear,

but knowing his path curved

another way.

He is the answer

to every question that begins

with “must” and “should.”

He lives by neither.

Only “is.”

Only “now.”

And when the moon spills

silver across his forest,

he climbs a rock,

slowly —

not to be seen,

but to feel the sky.

There, with stars resting on his fur,

he closes his eyes

and dreams not of war or glory

but of bamboo —

growing.

Always growing.