Rain on lawn so flat it doesn’t pond: the lawn just soaks it in. Thick soles are all we need: our feet stay dry in flip-flops. Because it seems we float, it also seems we walk on water. There is depth to this lawn, but we have never been able to get down to it.

moon punching through
a fist of clouds

Pigeons are settling in darkness and in branches. We stand beneath the ash tree, listening for sorrow. After the damage, leaves and feathers come floating down. So it would be if the damage were benign. After the real damage, the settling shoots out in all directions.

cloud bumping cloud
moonlight with a pulse

Bats are wolfing down the latest hatch. They sortie through the swarm. You do not put a cap on for protection. That old-wives’ tale is stubborn as religion.

dry wind and the whisper lips chapped

We turn out the light well before bedtime to bask in dark happiness. No one knocks because no one knows we are home. And in fact we are not home. The dark has its own little door, and when we go through, short paths that lead nowhere, brilliant for pacing.

long shadow and the gray
cat stretching

You dozed on the plane and woke when it slowed too much to sustain lift. We had not taken off yet, and so your dream of falling did not risk any actuality. You felt inside yourself to find the fear. Nicely hidden—the fear that disappears as it pulls you toward it, as it elongates you, since you’re staying right here.

orchard fog, apple just
beyond the ladder

See also Author Commentaries on Haibun Stories.

Bio: Charles Hansmann