A haibun for Robinson Jeffers
So moon turns to summer. The hills are veiled with shallow fog, the shrouds of restless sea-winds. Yellow fields of flowering mustard, flowing monk’s-robes in the saffron afternoon, conceal the tracks of slugs and lizards. Over the mustard-tops, warm breath steams from a burrow, flagging the circling hawk, a prayerful target. A silent multitude. Farms of the living.
We descend these hills as runoff creeks fed by sulfur springs mixed with fogfall. Mist covers everything, morning ice on the glade, even in late spring. The crisp air rises towards the stars.
an hour into twilight,
silver stars revealed—
fog rolls away on wolf feet