POEM: Down the Valley [PoMo Day 9 – Haibun]

The air was dry and the valley was dry. Tufts of yellow grass clung to the hillside and to the edges of the valley floor -- where they joined with the barren, brown tines of bleak shrubbery. In the riverbed, smooth stones and boulders sprawled to the shoulders, far wide of the feeble stream that flowed at the moment. The water ran gray, having come from the edges of a glacier that scoured its way down a granite channel. And in the "V" far ahead, clouds as thick as the mountains were being lifted and dropped over a snowcapped peak, pretending they'd bring their moisture into this arid landscape.  
mountain clouds
may become your fog, or
may sit in wait

Clear Skies & Cold Water [Haibun]

Crisp air and clear skies freshen the senses, injecting one into a world more real than one has felt before. Cerulean skies, free of contrails, feel close at hand. Grazing leisurely, a deer cracks a downed limb, the sound carrying across the lake.  A fluttering fishtail breaks the water as a bass turns and darts down and away, the sound of sprayed water is heard clearly, though one sees no indication of the creature. Shifting winds fill one’s nose with an antiseptic scent of pine. One is alive — fully alive.

early autumn
skies tint the muddy lake
a cold color

Distant Hills [a Haibun]

Raising my gaze, the world at a distance is softer, its contours green, a luscious green, a green which recalls past Springs. The foreground is rough and rocky, littered with rocks, some dull and others wet and glistening. A creek burbles, I know not from whence it comes. Just as I can’t say who dragged in these smooth rocks and boulders.
i look up
and the world ahead
pulls me forth