This is perhaps what the NaPoWriMo prompt intended. In my haibun I have put the words I kept in bold italics.

Woken at four in the morning by a mad thrush singing its heart out, I watch the starsand the place where the tiny nail-clippingof a moon had been. By starlight, the field is lead-coloured, not silver, except where the thistledown dandelion heads show above thelong grasses, the vetch and the flax. Bird sings alone except for the chortling oftoads by the pond and the backing chorus of frogs. Why, in this darkness, when fox and stoat and weasel prowl, when owls hunt through the branches? Is it really an instinctive urge, this drama in the night, or is it uncontainable joy in the spring that has suddenlyblossomedinto summer?

Springnight

warm as ditch water

sings of birth.

Out, the…