Wanderer
Faux Haiku
To feel at home in movement
Is as transient as food or sex or sleep
It is but a moment
Hills rise from golden fields
the winter already fading to spring
brief like the flash of wings.
a hunter walks up
through growing canyon shadows
no quail found this day
A hummingbird’s life is brief.
His song not more than a squeak.
Of all the birds he captures my gaze
and more often than not
I find it hard to turn away.