Some dry brown flowers
Hang from the edge of the bush.
Now they're yawning husks.
On top of the tree
A crow perches and watches.
Now king of the roost.
The shadows are out
Puddling under the large tree;
Dancing on the road.
Climbing down the pole
Squirrel was checking the mail box.
There's nothing for him.
How does it do that,
Growing from a bed of rock?
Innocent sapling.
In the sun's brightness
Ghostly seed pods are transformed
Into fluff fairies.
On the rock's surface
Delicate shadows of grass
Etched and unmoving.
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