muggy day—

a squirrel is swallowed

                     by a bush

low evening sun...

snails’ silver tracks

crisscross the pavement

motoring along...

first a red squirrel then a fox

                   crosses our path

a fresh day...

suddenly all the scents

of the flea market

exiting the church

to the echoing sound

of a banjo playing 

                ringing of church bells—

             the still river crashes

             into the weir

always still—a crane fly

appears for weeks on end

here and there

whooshing hailstones

hit the ground, bounce

      and disappear 

awaiting your visit—

through the window a shadow

but it isn’t you     

Wenlock Edge...

today a sheer drop
into a block of mist

Click on URL: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wenlock_Edge

                lapse in focus...

                my haiku moment

                        leaps into the ether 

           late afternoon—

           the tree’s variegated leaves

           a beacon of light   

holiday plane...

each twist of one wing

shifts the faint moon