Flying Down the Hill

  

Faint rat a tat tat--
Woodpecker or machine gun?
There's no sign of smoke.

 Sitting at table,
Getting ready for my walk;
New and familiar.

 

  

Like sprouting white hair
Birch rises above the barn;
Both venerable.

 Flying down the hill
Miabella to the bus--
Last morning freedom.

 

Ancient dry stream bed
Marked now by patches of light
That flow in its path.

 

In the morning light
Steel fence is invisible--
Freedom's illusion.

Dull gray weathered shack
Is made vibrant by sunlight.
Who cares what's inside?

Broken dead sapling
Bends over to crown the log:
Forest danse macabre.

Last daily haiku
Written on this garbage can;
Lovely tradition.