Winter haibun with erasure

Deer pass the window in the mist, silent and distrustful now that the hedge may conceal a raging death. In the valley bottom, the pheasant rattles his mustering cough. Will any hen be missing at roll call? Mist drifts, settles among the ghostly trees with the glue of worm casts and the millefeuilles of fallen oak leaves. Beneath, acorns are sprouting.

Birds flit through the fog

cold as winter dawns remind

me of the lost blue.

 

 

In the silent hedge

a death—

the pheasant.

His hen drifts.

Ghostly with fallen birds,

winter dawns

blue.

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Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

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