The Reverberate Hills; or The Apotheosis of the Narwhal

Wander off the path. Follow the distant bird-song. Shadows are waiting.

last Christmas tree left on the whole block of houses blinking in the dark

the lakeside trees wave at their rippling reflections waving back and forth

Shadows come quickly. Clear skies, winter afternoon. It's warm in the sun.

smudged grey winter light shadows of crooked branches songs of unseen birds

2017/360 (26 December 2017) the lights are turned low we go about our business silent empty rooms ******* 2017/359 (25 December 2017)...

shattered glass glitters haloed around the wrecked car no one is about

those leaves are still green, still clinging to their home branch: what does winter mean

dirty dishes wait stacked up in the kitchen sink the night air is crisp

plates of tempura rays of afternoon sunlight little piles of gold

little maple leaves curled and red on the green lawn: shoals of tiny crabs

overnight rainclouds under cover of darkness we wake to damp dawns

this smooth silver lake should have swans floating on it life is so cruel

darkness descending colored Christmas lights twinkle like streets full of stars

too sick for haiku but perceptions keep coming just not in right measures

pale light of winter broad breast of a silver swan lakes glowing like glass

flopping like a fish day sinks beneath the waters such pretty moonshine

eating fried chicken watching little birds fly by life sure is funny

little golden leaves dropping as the rain would drop if it ever rained

unliving leaves wait for the liberating winds to send them flying