For the dverse prompt. A haibun about writing plans.
Plans, I have none. I write, and occasionally send out a letter to an agent or a publisher, but always with lead in my heart. I expect nothing to come of it. Beyond disappointment and with no illusions, I write and write. The words form stories, short, long, novels, or poems, bright as gems in dark earth. I slipped out of the mainstream too long ago to know the right phrases or the current TV speak. I shrink and curl about myself and put down on the page what I know, not what the latest trend asks me in such semi-literate, head waggling ways to write. Begone, dull care, I will write what I please and toss it into the cloudy air. I will walk by the side of the high road and watch the buzzards laze across the field and let the bandwagon with its high-pitched laughter speed into the dust of far away.
Field full of silver,
frost in the grass and the air,
hawk spies red heat—swoops.