Haiku 121

It seems the moment
that the morning mist lifted,
the fox just vanished.

Advertisements

The Voice of the Woodpigeon

The distress in the voice of the woodpigeon
gives it a human cadence, its song
a disembodied embrace of all the grief
to come, or that has been.

For a spell, it dries, as if the tears began,
but it resumes as the night continues
into morning. Ah, morning! Was there ever
a sadder word? Or a more fitting bird?