craneo de un caballoSoon it was clear that the moonwas a horse's skull,and the air, a dark apple.The gearshift shudder ofa heavy-laden truck fades,all the while, thesustained drone of bees;past their prime and sluggish,their wings cannot be stilled.A dull glint behind the eyesof a yoked pair of oxen,standing at a crossroadbetween myself and the fieldsthat bake in the Augustof a Spanish sun,waiting for thehammer and anvil to sing,for the echoing refrainof rifle shots beyonda stand of distant treesshimmering from spent cartridgesin the waning afternoonof your exquisitely curved spine.
Migrations"Migrations" (haibun)Facing the ocean with the afternoon growing old, I listlessly watch beyond this living, heaving sight for hours, until the sunlight burns through, turning into undulating yellow savanna for as far as I can see. Herds of wildebeests, co-mingling with zebra, their black and white stripes interchange with the sea of tall grass. They move toward the ancient riverbeds still yet to be engorged from distant storm clouds that wont give up their precious cargo for another month. Breezes come off the surf with the scent of a kill I hear out of range.It's as if the entire curve of the earth from end to end has compressed into this singular moment.dangling my legsoff the edge of a pier,the casting of fishing linesblurs intopassing migrations