Late

Waxing moon
late spring, cold,
the frogs are quiet.

Late spring,
waxing moon,
the frogs.

The frogs,
late spring,
waxing moon.

Plop. The wind and the water. What you hear. What you think you hear. The moon is just outside my writing window. I can almost see clearly but the trees are in the way, definition is lost in new leaves. What I think I see, an imagined crow on an imagined branch, nothing is what it seems. I wish I could talk about this with Harvey but he offed himself and deprived me of the chance. Life, it seems, is about the living, the dead are a footnote, steps along the way. Basho, at the end, 1694:

deepening autumn:
the man next door,
what does he do?

And a particular favorite, at the very end:

Written during illness

Ill on a journey:
my dreams roam (a)round
over withered fields.