Saturday late in July

How sweetly   birds chirp in with sounds of traffic
how swiftly   morn perks up with skeins of light
again   Beijing's white fog appears prolific
again   my book's blank page bears what I write
the world accepts our heart   or disapproves
the universe (some whisper)   is a sham
the chessboard's grave despite my manic moves
I fly on ancient instinct   more than plan