twilight storm
the stones from low tide
still on my desk

rain-wet sidewalk —
each maple key leaves
its own signature

year of the rooster
the wind chimes swivel
soundlessly

deep in the woods
the mourning doves
deeper

mosquitoes
the slap of a beaver tail
at twilight

everywhere this morning
maple keys soaking in
the gentle rain

Just a little peek
     the underside
          of passion flower

Friday afternoon
a farmer mows hay
in zigzag patterns

filament slides
off my father’s reel
the faint current

the humid night —
ancient wood carvings
shift their gaze