I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
white columns
rise from a mountain lake:
once mighty pines.
trickling water
becomes a vast cascade;
grass tufts blur to trees.
dusky summer eve:
a heron wades in shallows,
blindly fishing.
butterflies orbit
in helter-skelter arcs,
but never bump.
The Chital at the watering hole
Has one single simple goal:
To drink its fill and then to scat
Before being eaten by some big cat.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 