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- 07/18/2024
- 385 Words
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
By Chance or Appointment - 25. High Summer Haibun
1.
A year ago, there were none to be seen.
They’d disappeared, like so many things fondly remembered.
But this year, joy of joys, there were three of them,
bobbing on the sparkling water under the warm June sun.
Beneath clear June skies
three loons, parents and their chick,
float and dive, fishing
in cold waters that shimmer
with light that lasts forever.
~ ~ ~
2.
Not far from the house is a wide hayfield
with a huge granite outcrop
on which a child could stand and shout
with growing, confident lungs
at the forests where the grass runs out;
and the woods returned our voices
so clear and true,
we could imagine the trees
mimicking us
word for word.
The northwest wind blew
and jostled the trees to speak
hoping for a joke
that might make the grasses dance
or chase the dark clouds away.
~ ~ ~
3.
It is hard to find a more haunting birdsong
than that of the Hermit thrush.
It’s also true that birds teach their offspring their specific songs,
often by singing repeatedly,
until the youngster knows
its own song by heart.
A male hermit thrush
sings an ethereal tune
amidst the birch leaves
to his silent, watchful, son
perched on a bare branch below.
~ ~ ~
4.
The field on a summer day isn’t merely green:
it’s a whole palette of colors,
with patches of red-orange and delicate purples and whites,
and shades of brown where the seed heads have begun to mature.
Every one of these hues shimmers and changes
when the wind blows, making the stalks
bow down in waves as the cloud shadows
cross the meadow.
Tiger swallowtails
sail over a sea of grass,
carried on a breeze
that sets the daisies nodding
while the trees laugh with delight.
~ ~ ~
5.
The field and forest are hushed.
The afterglow of sunset has faded over the mountain,
and Cygnus flies along the Milky Way.
In the east, there emerges a different light,
and a song to welcome it.
Somewhere on the ridge
coyotes sing to the moon
rising through the firs,
to praise its blood-red beauty
and in thanks for light to hunt.
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8
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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