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Sunday, September 15, 2013

And the Fickle Wind

 

Crisp Sunday morning;
Owl is melting into tree;
Soon it will be gone.

 

My rhododendrons,
So thick and green and shiny,
Reach above the roof.

 

 Fall may be coming;
Still the lush green locust tree
Fills up half the sky.




Stream shadows ripple;
Their light is ruled by water
And the fickle wind.


 Shouting from the fence,
Violet thistle flower screams:
"Look! But don't dare touch!"


 


 Forest near the fence:
Tiny universe of green
Unfolds near my toes.


 

Who is this Bryan?
And what is his project?
So many questions.




 Since last Christmas time
Dead tree lies at the road side.
Look! There is still green!


 


Wings over driveway--
Large dark birds rise to the trees,
Like flying shadows.








































 

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