On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening

First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.

Traveler's heart. Never settled long in one place. Like a portable fire.

Old pond, frog jumps in - plop.

Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.

Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.

Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?