
bird at work:
flitting branch to branch,
seeking perfect seeds.

bird at work:
flitting branch to branch,
seeking perfect seeds.

deer eyes walker.
jumbo jets scream overhead,
but it heard stick crack.

Pac-Men multiply: sought by too few upside-down lily “ghosts.”

one butterfly:
with so many eyes
that cannot see.

late Summer:
the last days before
reed heads fluff.

fallen blossoms
carpet the ground,
mottled by sunlight.

buds & blossoms,
in vibrant red, gussy up
a dreary cityscape.
Stumps are underwater. The pebble beach is gone. Floating docks slant downstream as fast waters roll on. Detritus on pylons: a beaver dam of wood. Coffee brown waters flow where yesterday I stood. Will the levees stand strong until the surge recedes? Will the flood wash away the willows and the reeds?
When I see some willows - down by water's edge, drooping in the moonlight, or swaying in the breeze - I think of Blackwood's tale of Danube canoers who land upon an isle to camp among the willows. And will the willows that I see, mark wicked ground, and what will they become when darkness makes its stand? It's such a pretty tree... now all but ruined for me, and that is story's power to sweeten or to sour.
For those interested in reading the referenced story:
The Willows by Algernon Blackwood — free at Project Gutenberg