Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end - tonight's moon
Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
The moon and sun are travelers through eternity. Even the years wander on. Whether drifting through life on a boat or climbing toward old age leading a horse, each day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die
Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone.
First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.