It’s Rooted In The Chest
the haibun journal, issue 7:1
Golden sun rays, as the morning mist has lifted right above the many speckled grass. The air is resting on itself. It has been white, is wet. The tips of both my shoes are, too. Square flagstones curve around the corner of the house, I follow, walking past the scattered bits of straw beside the rabbit hutch. A soft nose pressed against the mesh.
Too cold to be without a jacket, yet too warm for duffle-coats, I hide my aching fingers in the pockets. Long lanes have no turning. I have my eyes fixed on the light between the cedar branches when my phone starts to buzz …
Time’s passing through, so am I, and so I do.
red squirrel
round and round, shooshooing
colder days
pi & anne 