mushi no ne mo jibeta ni fusu ya nochi no tuki

insect chirps
lingering low on the ground
the later moon

heavy fog —
the mountain still back there
out of sight

what a silence!
and nobody’s around
to share it with

migrating birds —
I hear his voice in the wind
toward Nirvanna

bleu roi
a thousand flying foxes
quarter moon

walking alone
the filtered sounds
of the hototogisu

dusk
a half-ripe melon
frees itself from the vine

patter of raindrops
in autumn leaves . . .
the seasons turn

his passing . . .
the small fir collects
fallen leaves

starry night . . .
a worn phone number
in the handbook