It’s Poya, and dawn described the meaning of Impermanence (Annica).
Through the small window let into the upstairs hall, I caught a fleeting image of fluffy vermillion-tinged clouds engulfing the retreating sphere of the moon, sunset red as it slipped off the edge of the horizon: forever gone except in memory.
The monks, having filled the air with their chanting – the most minimal of melodies, a barely discernible cadence denoting rhythm – have left a moment of silence. Filled now by the sweet smell of incense …
… Now a symphony of sound. The world is awake! In their temple down the hill, the monks have begun the Buddham, Saranang, Gatchami: its affirmation and response lending a background rhythm to the deep bass notes of the pheasant, the sweet chirpings and twitterings of myriad other birds, the occasional exclamation of a rooster.
Moments pass: to be replaced by others, like a river of time, eternal, forever changing.