A Few Haiku


bare nests in gray trees
hold fuzz from chicks pipped feathered
grown flown going gone.


robins run amid
bright blades of green drumming worms
to surface for lunch.


the eruption of
blooms on the cherry tree sing
of promise renewed.


proud labradoodle
with soft mouth carries tree limb
home for inspection.

© Dana Hughes 3.23.15


As it turned out,

the old man walking at a tilt

along the road, with shoulders

hunched high, bare bald head

thrust low between, and knobbed

fingers twined for balance behind

as if he might blow over in a heap

if he stood straight, though there

was no wind to bend him, despite

the sound of leafless limbs in near

trees clacking as they scraped a

bruise upon the patch of sky above,

was a buzzard,

after all, advancing toward the city

that would neither shelter like chicks

beneath a mother’s wings, nor exhale

the breath sucked in when, untied,

the borrowed colt of a donkey

began to bray.

© dana hughes 3.13.15