Haiku from Randall Davies Audubon Center

(on the ground just above the pollinators garden)

I wander among
small continents of pale green:
Lichen maps on stone.

Sunflower husks nod
Towards purple suns of aster.
Late bees ravenous.

On shards of granite
mica shines mirrors, a glint.
Mornings, cooler now.

Prickly pear small as
my pinky, loosens its spines:
sharp sting in my palm.

(in orchard, on stone bench in front of teepee)

Dry grasses bent as
if a bed. I cannot smell
who may have slept here.

Jays raucous in a
fall breeze. My daughter sleeps far
away in the fog.

Dragonflies dive in
Chamisa’s gold. Few birds sing
near enough to see.

Blue spruce cone laden
from drought. Two men talk non-stop.
I yearn for quiet.

Teepee like a pyre.
Grasses, a dry bed. Stone bench:
momentary home.

***

These were written in a workshop last Saturday. I like…