Night Fox

Narrow in flight,

the fox sails through the night.

Soundless and sleek

who knows what he seeks:

a mouse,

or a den

safe from rain and wind?

Who knows where he goes:

just here

or far there?

The fox sails through my lights

and out of sight.

Night Light

Light presses against me

narrowing

my field

of view.

I can't see

unless

with my hands

I form blinders

to either side                 of my eyes

to push away the                     light

pressing

against

me.

I need

to see the sky

starring

all the stars

born before

the time

of light.

Just in Time

Just in time

wire-legged flamingos,

flaming pink,

arrived.

Just in time

for chill September's

not-quite-frost 

to arrive,

just in time

to tip maple leaves

flaming red

but not as bright

as my plastic

aviary.

Oblivious

bat flittering through

the strobe of night lightning

intent on one moth

Three Haiku for Flying Creatures

The flowers are here!

But the tiger swallowtail

flies up to the sun.

--- \o/ ---

Robin runs in spurts

along the road: who praises

the running of birds?

--- \o/ ---

Ragged butterfly,

how can you flutter up

more hole than wing?

--- \o/ ---

Where

Head down

scuff the gravel

cool between tall trees

step out into the bright heat

of home perched alone

on the crisp hilltop.



Head up

rustle ripe timothy

growing wild, hiding home

though you stretch up tiptoe

under that same sun to see

then step through and crunch across.



Straight ahead

driving by on the highway

tar and bricks steal proof of memory . . .

I do not follow that now paved road

nor look for overgrown paths to follow

just in case

the house stares back at me.





(Written during a workshop at the boyhood home of Stanley Kunitz; given themes: place and time.)

Stag

Today I heard you crack branches

and rip through tangled leaves

as you leaped up the impossible slope

above the roadway.

Seeing is not needed for believing.

I knew it was you.

When I did see you, I was not looking.

My eyes were surveying leafy side roads

into the park as I whizzed past,

seeking the road not taken.

You can't believe everything you hear,

but you were soundless anyway.

Like an icon in a Celtic mystery

you stood in the middle of the path

hocks hidden in the mist and antlers high,

echoing branches of dead trees.

Believing is not seeing.

I know you are out there, sight unseen.

Galloway Brook

     . . . there

appearing

      the brook takes five bends . . .

                             sparkling white with captured sun

undulating brown beneath evergreens

                       twirling a trio of sky blue eddies

        mirroring green overhanging maples

               retreating as low golden shallows cut by shadows . . .

disappearing

     there . . .

Three Hike Haiku: At the Pond

White-bearded elders,

last year's cattails, watch over

brown, beardless youngsters.

Yellowed green leaf in a

dying spiral mimics briefly

that tiger swallowtail.

Lest I didn't notice

he flies to the sole dead tree

bold red cardinal.

Inventory

startled today:

one large green and tan frog

with dark slit golden eyes;

one 'hairy' woodpecker,

an unflattering name for his

red-capped, black-and-white feathered finery;

one yellow-and-black-striped ground bee perusing one of many

triangular gaps in the outward tilted stonewall;

one unseen snake ripping fast

through dry grass underlying new green blades;

one parental tree swallow, again disturbed daily

and glaring from the glass-free garage window;

multitudinous miniature spiderlings,

round, reddish brown, dozing in dead pansy blooms,

whipped frantic by my prying, green-thumbed hands;

one bustling ant community

busily farming aphids on the alders

near the pond policed by speeding dragonflies

who are, in turn, startled too late to save themselves

from hungry leaping fish . . .

by that standard, I am a harmless intrusion

in my natural neighborhood.

Haiku Hourly

My personal challenge today is to write a haiku hourly!



6 a.m.

Between mosquitoes

and evening breezes, I walk -

a robin studies me.



7 a.m.

Speaking softly

to calm a tiny chipmunk -

I startle the heron.



8 a.m.

Seeking freedom

the wasp batters the sky, trapped

under the skylight.



9 a.m.

Purging the past

ready to dump the clutter

I glare at the locked gate.



10 a.m.

Picnicking early,

peeking through the flap of a trash can,

puppet-like squirrel.



11 a.m.

Woodpeckers tapping,

two head-to-head, unconcerned;

their tree is now a fence.



12 p.m.

Silhouette on a post;

even with glasses I squint -

yes! a bluebird!



1 p.m.

We gape open-mouthed

8 a.m. in the parking lot;

sparrow mimes, "It's hot."



2 p.m.

Enjoying warm sun:

then angry, biting, climbing . . .

I weeded their nest.



3 p.m.

I float a pine branch

offering on our artificial pond -

will the frogs return?



4 p.m.

Hourly I watch

windblown leaves, wandering wildlife, changing sky -

poems are hard work!



5 p.m.

The calendar says

summer vacation but I

still hear students' voices.



6 p.m.

Stalking the last verse

the pond and yard are empty:

time has run out.