In the poet's medicine bundle, crows perch on a bare branch–– winter evening. The trees look like tall monks robed in darkness. If there’s a breeze they can be heard whispering to a ghost. The god turns over in his sleep. He is no longer all powerful, but just a poet dreaming of unknown words. He didn't like being a monk. Gruel gives him gas. Thus he meditates alone on the Middle Way. Don't laugh. It's not what you think.