The only wind to wrinkle this pond's face, the bird's wings.


great blue
across this silent pond
a breeze

Hi folks!  Home from our pond, a quick visit; see you all on Tuesday.


catbirds
talk with the chipmunks
homelands

This wake-up drill... morning coffee!


in the shower
as the suds spool down the drain
smell of kona

During our nights at the pond, Kathy and I become rather primal, and enjoy the simple things of life.


this candle
hides the nights dark
an owl

__At our pond last night, one of the most dense rainfalls we've seen (heard?) in many years, remarkable!


water streams
off this tilted awning
a rope

Change... a key point in time; we can change methods, but we cannot change time.


lilacs
open to this rain
farmer's sow

__I honored her struggle; it was so very important to me, due to a similar situation that occurred in my very immediate family. I tried to think as she might have thought, and thus, this short view was written in 1985, just prior Karen Ann Quinlin's  final breath. Now I repeat it as haibun.


__Fifteen years I've looked out of my window, I, the sentry of mortality... watching and listening, and wondering. Why?
__Reasoning, judgement, and my involuntary breathing all converge in a clutter of echoes that linger in my hollownness. I can't feed the birds that I imagine visit me, or whisk away those flies that offend by leaving their specs on my brow. I can't wipe away my tears, or scratch that ugly itch in the small of my back, or clear my clowded throat. In this stony siege, there is so little that I can, and so much... that I cannot.
__Those looking in, insult me with their thoughts of pity, but I can't argue my displeasure or spit out my words of fury. I try to speak,  but the sound's path is blocked, and the only reward for my struggle are these lonely tears... in the sour corners of each eye.
__Gaping through this glass they watch me wither. These gazers... see me as themselves, and I their proxy, signify their anger as they approach their own Act Three. Locked in their desolation, that inescapable tunnel, they voice my voiceless wrath as they search for their own eternal and infinate survival. Their rage, in facing their own life's truth... peaks, as they watch and realize my bizarre existance. They do not see.

__Looking out, in leaving... I shall remain; I wonder why I see... what they cannot?

in leaving
I shall remain
remembered

Rainy day.

this crack
in the weeping tarmac
dandelion

I borrow this comment that I left at Kristin's Soft Spoken.


from afar
this steeple bell chimes
a birds call