hanging on

to a single wing
old spiderweb

on a path

swallowed by forest
horned moon

purple

stripes on trees
nothing’s private

as for me

the mossy side
of the trunk

gray

fox’s leftover
junco feathers

bubbles

frozen under the ice
or current resident

fresh snow

a vole’s
wandering hill

crow mimicking

a crow hunter’s
crow call

New Year’s Eve

more than ordinary
stir fry