Thistledown
That night the wind died down.
I've had enough, he said to himself. Who cares anyway? No one does. Not for me, that is. And he lay down to sleep among the thistles at the far end of the meadow. Only his dreams were seen to swirl about a little longer. Gloomy dreams about howling when nobody heard and wanting to hide in a bucket.
The trees fell silent. All creatures of the night held their breath; even the old shed stopped moaning.
Sleep. Let him sleep, they thought. He's strayed too far, seen too much.
Watching over the wind's sleep, they drew up an imaginary list. Wind-tossed, it read, a nipping wind, a fair wind, a puff of wind and wind farm, which was something a bird of passage came up with, and much else. Not forgetting refreshing wind, the thistles thought to themselves.
In his sleep, the wind nodded imperceptibly, indulged now in consoling dreams about bowing grasses, sea spray and the Arctic Owl's softest feathers. For the first time in his vagrant life he felt he belonged. Where on his travels had he seen the like? Ah, yes...
sound asleep
in the Mongol steppe:
nomads
dreaming of cattle
and horses, horses
No one stirred that night. But the thistles spilled woolly seeds and tried to hold in their prickles just this once.
First published in
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose, Summer 2009
For a Lark
What are we bowing for, bowing for? the grasses whispered. And to whom, to whom, to whom?
Thus they asked among themselves – not so much for an answer as for the pleasure they took in the sound of the words. On a whim they bowed deeper still and spoke softly in each other's ears, well aware that their murmur would spread all the same.
Some got all worked up about the issue.
Whoever it is, he must be truly adorable, the pheasant said, assuming an air of importance. I'd say they were bowing in honour of me.
As I trail
my gorgeous tail
even the sun
must blink, blinded by
the brightness of my cloak.
Dear me! Your brightness doesn't show in your shallow speech, alas, nor in your poetry, the praying mantis commented. Mind my words: the glory of the venerated is of different cast.
Pray, be meek
like the little lambs
pure in heart
and always prepared
to face the Grim Reaper.
And rocking from side to side he focused on a tiny beetle that had listened keenly to his advice.
Some prophet you are! the skylark sneered. As sure as eggs is eggs, these dewy-eyed grasses know nothing about death. They confide in a much stronger power.
Soaring straight up, and in hovering flight, the skylark quavered again and yet again:
What to think
of secret love?
Hidden
among the grasses
it never reveals itself.
Everyone hushed, marvelling at this magnificent song and its overtones.
The grasses, however, had long forgotten about their droll question and never cared to listen to rumours. Gently stroked by the wind they bowed playfully, whispering silken words until dark, until daylight.
First published in
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose, Summer 2009
Wings
Wings? You?
Why, yes!
Are you quite sure?
All morning the sea spray had listened to the goose barnacles' boastful talk. Hanging down from the wave-swept crags, they had been spouting over small sips of sea water. Now that he pressed them, they were remarkably tight-lipped.
They're like that, the seaweeds said. Don't fall for it.
But the spray was taken in by the barnacles' ramblings about a world beyond the cliffs. A world where their kin lived as birds-if he were to believe them. Oh, to soar up and hover...
Mere foam
ceaselessly swept
by the tides
I'm washed ashore
only to perish
the spray brooded. And in another effort to break free, he splattered the rugged rocks.
We can do better than that! the wind called out. He had come all the way across the ocean, and not lost his force yet. Beating the waves, he churned up the sea.
The tide pools flooded. Starfish, crabs, mussels: whoever hadn't been prepared, was tossed about, smashed or carried away by rough waves. The surf rolled in higher and higher, to break at last at the bold cliffs. The air was salt-laden and veiled in vapour.
What a sight! the spray cried, peeking beyond the steep coast.
What a treat! the wind sighed, refreshed after his weary journey.
And as he continued on his way over land, passing grey inland towns, he contemplated on rapture and zest for life.
What a treat! he sighed repeatedly, his thoughts still with the spray. Wherever he went, the wind left behind a whiff of brine and somewhat brighter faces.
First published in
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose, Summer 2009
Few and Far Between
Perched on his mound in the snow-covered tundra, the Arctic Owl looked around intently.
Nothing to be seen, he noted. That is, if I can't be seen either.
He carefully examined his feathered feet, one after the other. He spread his white wings and didn't find a speck on them or on the thick plumage that warmed his bones. He squinted his yellow eyes. As far as he could judge, he was invisible now.
Amazing! he thought. I must invite the wind to have a look. And on his next flight, he wrote a letter in the sky.
Dear Wind,
snow's falling
and no one finds his way
to this place,
whence even mice flee
leaving not a trace.
Do come and see me –
if you can.
The Arctic Owl
Then he sat and waited for the wind to call and some prey to show up, since starving was his constant worry.
Mice were scarce indeed, as was all prey. Even carrion was hard to find. When the wind came sweeping over the tundra, the owl was down and had to screen his eyes from the biting cold. The wind in turn, was blinded by the dazzling brightness of the white expanse.
Owl! he cried, oh dear Owl,
your feathers' hue
is lost among the snow –
if only
one could hear your hoot
and know you are at hand!
But as he was too loud himself, he couldn't hear the owl clap his beak. Thinking his friend had starved to death, he moaned:
White snow
has fallen and drifted high
around that mound –
if not buried the bones
of him, who lived there, once.
Too late! I've come too late, he sobbed, and after days of fruitless searching he turned away in grief to calm down at last, some place further south.
Dear me! the owl cried, what have I done. And oh! what am I to do? Seized with remorse, he tore out his whitest feathers until he was chilled to the bone. Only then did he come to his right senses again.
This'll end in nothing, he thought. And nothing means: without me, the owl. I must be off, before it's too late.
With the last of his strength he headed south, where the wind was, where the mice were, where he was embraced by milder air. He took care to let his hoot resound in the vast blue skies, where his friend would be sure to spot him and see him like he really was: a worn out, wretched old bird.
The wind was about to get up, when he noticed something white float down on a nearby rock.
Nothing in the world is as white, he cried, nothing but the feathers of him, who's gone! In my grief I see him everywhere...
White snow's falling
covering all alike –
how else
could even boulders wear
the Owl's softest feathers?
Hearing the wind speak like this, the Arctic Owl dived and circled all around his friend, caressing him with what feathers he had left.
All day, and for many days to come, they were seen together, laughing, crying, playing tag in the skies. And while the owl gained strength and ate his fill, the wind told him all he knew, or thought he knew, about other masters of camouflage, like the Walking Leaf, the Goldenrod Crab Spider and the Chameleon.
Gaily coloured? the owl asked. How's that? But he loved to listen to the wind and never questioned his stories.
First published in
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose, Summer 2009
Last update 31.01.2010