(untitled)#65

.

blown away

a ballet of grebe

on wind-swept pond

.

(untitled)#64

.

shepherding

the notes of a flute

just the wind

.

(untitled)#63

.

quick-silver runs

on the wave crest – the moon

crashes onto the beach

.

where once

my hairline now tumble

white whiskers

.

stealing silver

creeping out – behind a cloud

moon shadows fall

.