morning rush hour —
an osprey points a fish
into the wind

the still cumulus
a hum of voices
before the workshop

muggy night
our room fan ruffles
the front page

bright morning —
walking the pain
from my heart

wandering
from birdsong to birdsong
city morning

salt spray
a taste of peat
in my whisky

evening warmth —
latchkey kids play rummy
in the doorway

sunrise
we lower
the blinds

crowded square —
a mime’s glance
crosses mine

merry-go-round
no one wants to ride
the wolf