The eagle soars away into the sky
And yet he never plumbs the depths of space.
The four seasons give place to one another,
Yet never seem to have an end or a beginning.
When the one dry tree on the hill is blown down
By the timely wind, what can one do?
From “Song of the Golden Elephant” in Mudra: Early Poems and Songs by Chögyam Trungpa, page 31