I have been wondering about my garden in the drought, since I am not there to see
the new leaves of the fig in springtime. This is how they were last April in bright sunlight.
The year's first poem done,
with smug self confidence
a haikai poet.
Longer has become the daytime;
a pheasant is fluttering
down onto the bridge.
The haiku post Buson also wrote longer poems. I don't know the source of this one or the translator.
But tonight it pleases me. Instead of a pheasant, I had a quail on the porch railing today. The grasses and the birds are waking up and the iris are budding beside the Little Union Canal.