in the mosquito's
buzz, a thread of thought
begins in my mind

fire on the mountains —
between heaven and earth
darkness as ever

inhaling urban dust
and turning it into flesh

snipe on the wing —
left behind, the murmur
of a little stream

unlikely flowers
when they bloomed — yet now

blissfully lying
under the falling blossoms

clap of a pheasant's wings
as a string on my koto
snaps — and night falls

spring departs —
clothes hanging out to dry
at a mountain villa

clustered bush clover —
the wheels of a carriage
squeak in the moonlight

There was an Old Person of Chester,
Whom several small children did pester;
They threw some large stones, which broke most of his bones,
And displeased that Old Person of Chester.