Wind lifting
the quail tracks
with the snow.

Autumn.
Turning off the radio
to listen.

Late afternoon.
The porch icicle
lit from within.

Drip by drip,
the moonlight lengthens
in the icicle.

First snow.
The neglected yard
now perfect.

The old pond.
A frog jumps in.
The sound of water.

What is this sound
in the evening wind
as summer overlong lingers?

A fish, a leaf,
a moment
in the river.

Spring thaw —
one small carp
hides in the shallows.

From my sagebrush bed,
the sky’s vault vast –
beyond it, vaster still.

A bitter rain.
Two silences beneath
the one umbrella.

Morning dew.
No hiding the way
we’ve come.

Wall Street gym.
Junior execs
run in place.

Hand in hand,
both of us kicking
the same stone.

Medieval town –
to the worn steps
I add my own.

Fireflies.
My neighbor
has more.

How many times
did I tell him to be quiet —
child in coffin.

My father
losing his memory — asks me
not to forget him.

Suddenly I realize
I’ve already crossed
the scenic bridge.