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RETIREMENT
A pair of wood storks were lazingon the verge of the pond thatimagines itself a lake, however small.They were breakfasting in the grassesthat arise in the dry season hereonly to be drowned by its counterpart.They acknowledge that like methey are retired but not by choice, they say,only because the malpractice insurancefor delivering babies has grownso…
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HAIKU
The harvest mooncaresses the still pondsleeping peacefully When you sit atopthe peak of the mountainevery step is down ibis move asideat the Great Egret’s demandavian order
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YOU AGAIN?
On the path around the pondthe male of a pair of Sandhill Cranesstares closely at us wondering, perhaps,which if any of us actually belongs here.We more than return his stare, fumblingfor our cameras that claim they are phones,wanting to capture this moment.The crane proudly approaches, getsinches from the arm-extended phone. Is hetrying to see what…
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SEASIDE HAIKU
The ocean singsof its abundant lifewe hear only waves On the tidal pondthe moon admires itselfno one will see it On the waterI cried a thousand tearsthe sea accepts them
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FOUR HAIKU
The aging man staresat the passing flock of ducksimagining flight Green Heron looksout over the placid pondsmall fish get nervous Sandhill Cranes watch usstopping to take their picturethey refuse to smile the heat of summerrises off the warming pondducks paddle to shore
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AND THE RAINS CAME
It may sound odd, but what I miss mostis the spring rain, so short lived, alongthe roads in Highland Park in Rochester.You may say “but you live in Floridawhere the seasons are measured bywet and dry” and we do get rain, sometimesseemingly in Biblical proportions.and the Blue-winged Teals have returnedto our wetland now almost half…
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THE FAR SHORE
The old monkstanding alongsidethe ever still pondpicks up a pebbleand tosses itinto the pond.The ripplesspread outever wideras the Buddhaon the far shoresimply smiles.
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WRITING
I wrote my namein the waterof a still pondpracticing untileach letter wasperfectly shaped.I smiledat my signatureas a morningshower rippled itto the surroundshores.
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SPINNERS
They were hoveringlike so many demented helicopterson the verge of the pondthis morning, as if fightingthe humidity that hangslike a velvet curtainover summer mornings.They look littlelike the dragonfliesof my childhood imaginationnor of the great beastswho should oncehave roamed here.We are nowtheir predatorsbut the morning sunno longer danceson the wingswe have given up.
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SOZAN’S DHARMAKAYA
When you ask yourself“who am I?”how do you answer.If you lookat yourself in a still pondis that only youthat you seeor do you also seethe pond lookingat you? A reflection on Case 52 of The Book of Equanimity (従容錄, Shōyōroku)
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an old writer and his words 