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The eight-year-old boy can’t reach the first branch of the largest of a pair of maples in the front yard so he settles for the lowest branch of the smaller tree. He easily pulls himself up into the first crotch and pauses there, planning his route to the top of his favorite aviary. He knows each branch like the back of his hand, every step, every handhold. He starts to climb, one limb at a time.

As the boy ascends, the branches get smaller and more flexible. He can feel himself now swaying gently in the wind. He can almost (but not quite) poke his head out of the leaves at the top of the tree before he’s forced to stop climbing. Here he tucks a leg into the fork between two branches and settles in. First he senses the breeze gently evaporating the sweat from his climb. Then he feels the sun poking through the few leaves hovering above his wandering eyes. Eventually, the sound of those rustling leaves bleeds into his awareness. All would be silent if it weren’t for the rhythm of the leaves and the chirping of an unseen bird. The boy is where he needs to be. A robin lights on the branch beside him. He wishes he could fly.

dancing
with a cricket…
moonrise 

Haibun Today 12 | 2 June 2018

The bugle sounds and I rise from bed, thoughts of an early-morning swim drifting through my mind. We gather in the field and the camp-master utters his daily questions. Who wants to stay and do exercises? Who wants to go to the lake? There’s a chill in the air and some can’t fathom getting wet, while others eagerly raise their hands.

The whistle blows and the brave scurry to their cabins to fetch a towel before running down the hill. It’s a badge of honor to be the first one to jump in. Some stand on the docks and dip a toe. The knowing ones cannonball in with a great big splash. I make my way to the diving board, knowing full-well that it’s all relative, the coolness of the air versus the temperature of the water. I bounce, then fly, a perfect arch in my back, arms spread wide like a swan. I pierce the glassy surface. Warmth envelopes me. The morning chill all but forgotten, last night’s dream comes back to me.

Later that evening around the fire, sparks flow up to a starry sky. We sing the camp songs and say our prayers, then head to bed to dream another dream, something for tomorrow’s plunge into the ripples on the lake.

a honeybee sips
from a rose in the trellis
busy at being
what it’s meant
to be

Contemporary Haibun Online 16:2 | Aug. 2020

A peaceful country road winds its way through the quiet fields and pastures just south of the Mason-Dixon Line here in Maryland. This lazy pathway is not encumbered with bumper-to-bumper traffic, the honking of horns, or the sounds of marching armies. In fact, the only real commotion here is caused by a few red-winged blackbirds flitting about, squabbling over whatever piece of real estate it is they’re hell-bent on plundering next. The occasional tractor chugs by and, every so often, a car. The Doppler Effect seems very noticeable here or so I’ve noticed. I was aimlessly driving my own car down this road when I just had to stop, get out, and listen to the view.

dragonflies stirring . . .
imprints of wind
on a cloud

The scent of hay, corn, fresh-tilled earth, and cow manure mingle together and saturate the warm summer air. It’s a country thing. As you might guess, there’s a lot that goes into concocting the average bucolic day but I’m just a tourist passing by. What do I know?

A grasshopper jumps out of the tall grass beside the road and lands at my feet. I’m careful not to step on it as I get back into the car and start the engine. The noise shocks the air and the grasshopper wings away. I pull back onto the road, lost in the sound of the waves I’m making, semi-oblivious to my own existence, and overcome with a sudden urge to turn on the radio and listen to some country music.

Contemporary Haibun Online 14 | 1 April 2018

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each bud
opens to its first day,
a leaf
dancing with the sun
like a lover

A soft spring sky hovers over the valley. The rain has come and gone. Without a care in the world, she’s skipping through a puddle, her clothes still wet from the downpour. You see, there’s nothing quite like seeing your first rainbow.

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From his marrow to his soul, there is only the road, each step he takes, closer than the last to “who knows where?” Not running away from where he’s been, just seeking whatever lies ahead, he’s got to get there as fast as he can, dreams of laying his burden down the moment he’s sure he’s finally arrived.

His shoelace comes untied. Kneeling in the gravel on the side of the road, he looks up to see a stranger walking ahead. He watches the stranger disappear over the next rise, wonders if he will vanish there too.

No rumble of engines, just the buzz of a bee. He watches as it vanishes into a sea of wildflowers. He sees the sun poke through the clouds, considers the best direction to head. Should he follow the stranger or follow the bee?

a spring breeze
ripples the meadow . . .
his kite
hovers for a moment
then zigzags through the sky