Sunrise at the International Buddhist Center

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The blood orange sun rises
Silently above the mist-shrouded city.
The birds begin to call and the sounds
Of early morning commuters
Drift up the mountainside.
Hands are folded in laps, eyes
Are closed, and breaths are counted,
Rising, falling, rising, falling.
The trees are still silhouettes
As the dawn arrives, and
The clouds sit above the earth
Like a painting, unmoving,
And not quite tangible.

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