A crow hopped from slippery ledge
To slippery ledge in a space where
The waterfall parted and was bleached bright
By the sunlight, the crow was blue.
The crow hopped on the scanty pine
That grew out of a the sparse sand
In a rock crack behind a puff
Of mist, the crow was silver.
I asked the young monk with me,
What is the color of a crow.
I disturbed his concentrated gaze
At his sake in his blue-tinted clay cup,
He annoyed, puzzled, look into
The massive pile of notes he had
Copied from his schooling, he
Said, "A crow is black."