An ox had been lost somewhere. He heard about it, and wanted to join with others in the search. He imagined himself as a hunter who had caught sight of the tracks or instinctively knew the secret watering places, and was able to wait patiently nearby, concealed in a blind. He could also imagine himself as a cat single-mindedly stalking its prey, or as a lizard or walking-stick camouflaged on the branches of a tree, as a flamingo standing on one leg for hours in the marsh. He imagined himself sitting so still that he could hear his own blood coursing through his veins, that listening he would fall in with the very rhythms of creation, and through these rhythms into the mind of one who knew everything, even the whereabouts of the ox. If only he could be like a snake warming itself on a rock, or like a bear hibernating in winter, like a tree which stands for 200 years and only sways in response to the wind, like the grass growing low in the fields, being grazed by cattle, eaten by insects, withered by the sun — all of which, of course, know the whereabouts of the ox. Or if he could just be like some plant in the garden, a seed buried in the ground, a stone at the edge of the road, like one of the stars hanging in place for a million years, like a fossil entombed in the earth. O the glory of thus finding the ox! But dreaming all these things he never caught sight of the ox.