A gentle breeze blows;
The sky is gray mixed with blue;
Voices from far off.

Pile of strewn white fluff
Lies scattered by the road side--
It once was a bird.

A silent brown flash--
White tail bounds into the woods.
Was it a mirage?

Resting on tree trunk,
Some moss adds green to the brown--
Life nourishes life.











Standing in the field:
Abandoned washing machine--
Nature's flower pot.


Where do shadows go?
Now they mark the bend in road,
Now they've disappeared.









The forest is dark
Even though it's almost noon.
The tree stump seems pleased.


"Do fresh" the words say,
Printed on discarded cup
Lying "fresh" in ditch.