July 28th 2016

·
after
····· a swim—bikinis drying on the shed
········roof
·
·
There were a few brief drops of rain this afternoon—but nothing to refresh the brook. Out walking this evening, the crickets reminded me of my childhood. But a cricket? Their lifespan is the lifespan of a summer—and the world’s dissolution is their own. How simple and straightforward.
·
260 July 28th 2016 | bottlecap
·

July 27th 2016

·
seated
·····under a summer’s moon—the dreaming
········fox
·
·
Every so often the headlights surprise the green eyes and elusive tail slipping into the underbrush. The fox pups may be three to four months old now and are hungry. There are some foxes close by and this year they’ve been keeping our garden rodent free.
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259 July 27th 2016 | bottlecap
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July 26th 2016

·
even
·····the milky way—cooling above July’s
········sunset
·
·
The brooks begin to fray into thin threads of water. The evening, like the evening before, falls motionlessly into the leaves. The spindly legged crane flies look in at the windows. The June bug bumps the screen. The first crickets begin to sing in and out of the house.
258 July 26th 2016 | bottlecap
·

·

July 22nd 2016

·
searing
····the grasses—the cry of summer’s first
········cicada
·
·
I had been wondering when I would hear the first cicada and heard it yesterday. The cicadas in Vermont are less haunting that those in Ohio—the place of my childhood. In Ohio we called them locusts. The cry of the Ohio locust isn’t a steady cry but a rise and fall in volume—the same pitch growing in volume three times until it fades and drops in pitch. To my childhood ears the cries always heralded autumn and seemed tinged with regret. Parts of Ohio are swarming, this year, with the 17 year locust. The creatures look fearsome but are utterly harmless to touch or hold.
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254 July 22nd 2016 | bottlecap
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July 21st 2016

·
after
····the mowing—an ox-eye daisy and the lone
········sun
·
·
That time of year the tractors have come out to mow the median and the highway’s shoulders. The beautiful colors are burned to a papery foil without their roots in the moist earth. The evenings are suffused with the drying smell of the cut grasses.
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253 July 21st 2016 | bottlecap
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July 20th 2016

·
one
····telephone pole after another—morning’s mist
········brightens
·
·
There is a little brook out back of my back door—just three or four steps and you’ll stand in water. Every summer, crossing the bridge to the barn, I’ll catch sight of one or two fish.
·
also
····returning to its source—a brook trout swims
········upstream
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252 July 20th 2016 | bottlecap
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July 19th 2016

Last night was my two hundred fiftieth haiku. I continue to edit it. I remember when I wrote my hundredth and two hundredth haiku. I wanted to write something extraordinary, but it never works that way. I’m the opposite of a clutch-hitter.
·
so
····little rain—as if the wildflowers might spark
········fires
·
·
Today was beautiful, warm with a cooling breeze, and I was sorry to see it go.
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251 July 19th 2016 | bottlecap
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