Why is it this year that the familiar warbler songs sound like dripping blood or fabric being torn?
Where did it come from, this premonition that someday I will be parted from my head?
Train following the river; snowflakes following the train.
There’s no denying the appeal of dead trees: they look more human.
In a distant field, a white house glows like a sail in the late-March sun.
The feeling that something is about to happen, out here where nothing ever happens…
Strolling down the Allegheny Front on an old rail bed. A haibun.
Visiting Dad’s grave yesterday, I had a strong sense of his absence amid the fundamental indifference of nature.
When I stand up, I see the large coyote that’s been watching me—who knows for how long—from 50 feet away.
If I were a tree, head-down in the earth, I’d stretch one toe into the clouds.
I’d like to die
on my feet
on the trail sign…
my last sip of tea