18 Haiku

A liquid whistling
song of a bird I can’t see—
light morning breeze

On opposite sides

of the house two cars drive by—
one north and one south

Clouds like invaders,

dragon-shaped, overtaking
those ahead of them

*

These trees are alive!

Those big blank buildings are not!
—breeze stirring the leaves

The words roll upward

on a red-lighted sign in
the subway station

A girl next door squeals

as I stare out the window—
V of gulls sails by

*

Sitting in lotus—

already better than I
was before I sat

In the mist, the wires

sizzle overhead—bird perched
up there doesn't care

Artists are surfers—

when your wave comes, you've got to
ride it all the way

*

A synthetic voice
from the night parking garage—
alone in the fog

Don’t see him until
he starts tapping at a tree—
morning woodpecker

Hot days—our so-called

“Hurdy Gurdy Birdy!” sings
this, and “Pweep! Pweep! Pweep!”

*

He struggles against
wind pouring above the lake—
flapping little bird

Bored shirtless young men

carry rocks from the lake bed
for a free boat ride

A dead silver fish

in the little girl’s basket—
she wants to keep it

*

Orange sunset glows
through chinks in the cooling trees—
my shirt is still sweaty

Barefoot kids popping

July Fourth firecrackers—
done before dark

Driving in the heat—

soft gusts through the half-open
passenger window



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