Children shone in the front gate and put their hands together in the 
demon pavilion.
     Then they went up red-dusted steps toward the granite stupa, where they 
didn’t hesitate to bow with their mothers.
     Thick white candles with reverse swastikas and rows of images on the 
ascending plinths of stone.
     I crouched under the temple, in the cool shadow, by the outdoor Nestlé’s 
coffee dispenser—and was aroused when two women strode by in russet 
hanbok
     “Color of the dharma’s robes,” said monk Sôgu suddenly beside me.
     I followed him down the hill and sat on a log. There was a small lake and 
I was calm enough at last. . .to listen to my new uncle conduct the 
neighborhood’s Bodhisattva orchestra, seated on folding chairs in the mud 
beside it.