Thursday, November 16, 2017

The Waiting Crowd

There's a cold rain falling. Perhaps a degree above freezing. And I'm worrying about my squirrels, mourning doves, dark-eyed juncos, the various sparrows, the finches - all that visit the feeders. All of them my creatures that I've been feeding twice daily for some time. Black oil sunflower seeds, millet, cracked corn, peanuts, wheat grain, and the such.

I realize they're not really my creatures, but I'm attached to them with that delicate strand of humanity that forces me out in that rain clad in a thin shirt to spread the afternoon manna before the waiting crowd. And they do wait, dozens to tiny birds strung like jewels along the fence, doves hunkered in the trees above, and squirrels lining the edge of my studio roof. 

"Crowd" is appropriate - at one such feeding my wife Jan counted over 30 dove in the mix, with squirrels and dozens of sparrows, finches and juncos oblivious to each other. But it's mid-November and getting colder. I'm beginning to worry about the survival of my creatures, despite knowing that each is equipped to survive. I tend to surprise myself with the amount of concern I have for  these tiny beings, actually God's creatures, not mine. God takes care of them better than I - all I can really do is help out by feeding them.

Friday, March 31, 2017

Here's one for you:

My friend and painting buddy Larry was over today and he starting saying something to me before I was in earshot. So I started haranguing him, good-naturedly of course:

"Hey! I'm 75 and hard-of-hearing!", I told him.

"That's okay, I'm 67 and hard-of-talking", he retorted.

It's tough to get one past the guy.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

press briefings

press briefing
dog turds
litter the backyard

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Reflections in the Reeds

A breeze weaves through bulrush and cat-tail, carrying the scent of Russian olive trees in bloom. The marsh is alive with flights of redwings, yellow-headed blackbirds and marsh wrens. The sounds of birds and insects are everywhere.

a hawk spirals down
the updraft 

My brother and I used to put in at this very spot. He died two years ago and I remember his quietness, his calm. I miss him. I was always looking for something else. Discontented. I've learned to slow it down, however, enjoy life as it's happening – perhaps I'm becoming more like him. I could do worse. Now if I can paddle the pond on my own. 

in a canoe's wake
the ebb and flow
of clouds

July 2013, vol 9, no 2
Issue of Contemporary Haibun Online 

Just been thinking about Bing, my brother who died a few years back, and decided to post this. 

Friday, January 20, 2017


sun on snow
the paradox
of you and me

Sunday, January 15, 2017

Gathering storm

gathering storm
each cloud
consumes the other

Saturday, January 7, 2017

The hurt

a bruised peach –
the hurt within