four haiku for late November…

        falls whispering into the whispering

    90 November 11th

        her umbrella—evening folds into 

    91 November 15th
        wanted—her doll's button-eyes still

    92 November 18th

        leaning sunward—the withered wild-

    93 November 22nd 2021 | bottlecap

haiku for the close of October

        gone to bed—a jack-o-lantern's grin flickers

    86: October 28th

As I was walking along minding my own business, a couple neighbors startled me. They’d snuck under the electric fence (which, to folk like them, is a mere formality).

        rotting under the tree—for two pigs?

    87: November 1st 2021 | bottlecap

a little journey to the north & four haiku

We went up to Burlington over the week-end. The city was beautiful, as always. We visited our daughter at UVM and hiked along the bike trail skirting Lake Champlain. We also visited an outdoor market in the South End.

        the pumpkin's and the little girl's bottom—

    82: October 14th

There’s been a good deal of work done on Burlington’s waterfront during the last thirty years. I remember it’s being scruffy and overgrown but now there’s a waterfront park, museum, a rail trial that can be walked, biked or run with a beach and a skate park along the way. The trail goes to the north. To the south, warehouses have turned into antique stores, bookstores, cafés and restaurants without seeming gentrified. Many of the old railroad tracks are still around, embedded in the roads, yards and parking lots—reminding me of Berlin. A little closer to the lake, the trains still keep busy.

        at midnight—the moth's colorless

    83: October 18th

We visited Rockpoint, an outcropping of cliffs and rocky beaches and sand. Just a small walk to the north. Whereas the rest of Vermont has surrendered its green to the pines and firs of the mountains, Rock Point still keeps its summer—warmed by the lake’s waters and long sunsets. The Adirondacks are the saw-tooth ridge across the waters.

The walk back took us along the beach. A handful of seagulls, having nothing much to say, paid no mind.

        October—each day the scarecrow's shadow

    84: October 21st


        with the weather-vane—the Milky

    85: October 25th 2021 | bottlecap

4 haiku for the first week of October

  • A few images from New England this weekend. The last is from Katahdin.

        the tree's unleafing, the wide-eyed

    78 September

        a pumpkin in her shirt's belly—fall

    79: October 4th

        far as October's winds—the owl's 

    80 October 7th


        in a yellow field—the tractor at mid-

    81 October 11th | by bottlecap

Haiku for the end of September…

A devil's paintbrush come very late to the party.

I've been awfully busy with carpentry since returning 
from Halifax, replacing windows, doors and rotten sills. 
My back has been in bad shape but hasn't prevented me from 
working—if I'm careful. Still no frost in Vermont. By this 
time last year we'd had three or four killing frosts.

        rainfall—her toes among bobbing crab-

    75 September 2oth

The rains have been warm. The crab apples 
took to floating in the puddles after a good and 
drenching shower.

        from the paper, a cricket's exclamation

    76 September 23rd

The best September days have only just now shown up. 
The breezes are cool and the sun is warm, but not hot. The
humidity has gone out of the air. The hillsides are still green
but the sap is going out of the leaves. They rattle and fall
with each gust.

        and windows closed before nightfall—

77 September 27th ~ Bottlecap

A freshly baked loaf of bread for the evening's meal.

Three Haiku & a trip to Halifax

Because of border complications arising from Covid, I drove one of my three daughters to Halifax (rather than fly her)—and that was an 11 1/2 hour drive with no stops. If she had flown, she would have been forced to quarantine for 12 days at a hotel in Halifax, and there were no direct flights to Halifax from the US. So, living in Vermont, why not drive? I’d never driven much beyond Mount Desert Isle. The road in Vermont starts with White Pines, Maple, Birch, Oak, Poplar and as one drives across Maine, the deciduous trees gradually give way to evergreens until, by the time one is driving through New Brunswick, the forests are given almost fully over to evergreens—Red Spruce, Balsam Fir and Eastern Hemlock. The landscape smooths into a gradual, rolling, rising and falling with views of wooded expanses and sky. The bay of Fundy gleams to the south. Just past Moncton, the highway rounds the northern tip of the bay and heads south until it crosses a broad flat into Nova Scotia. There are half a dozen towering wind turbines that turn on the Nova Scotia side.

The video was taken behind the Nova Scotia visitor center.

After that, there was another two to three hours rolling through evergreen forests and fields before we landed in Halifax.

        through the wind-turbine's blades—the Milky

    69 August 30th 2021

I always expect Canadian cities to be more European: That is, I expect a city that’s lived in rather than a 9 to 5 white collar business district; and a hope for a café culture that invites sidewalks filled with drink and conversation rather than the snarling of impatient automobiles and delivery trucks, but in the end Canadian cities are mostly like their North American counterparts in the US. Halifax does seem as though it’s going through a transition. While the old city center is filled with “For Lease” signs, is treeless, cold and uninviting, a new city center, Spring Garden Road, is being gussied up. The power lines, a tangled mess of wires draping nearly every street, strung from telephone poles that are bent with strain, some broken, are finally and properly being buried. Spring Garden street is being narrowed to make it a semi-pedestrian zone. They should simply make it a pedestrian zone and kick out the cars.

        between the lovers' bicycles, the red, shiny

    70 September 2nd 2021

We stayed four nights, then left our daughter and her green backpack at Dahlhausie. That was rough. The last two of my three daughters have left at the same time (though two years apart in age.) I live in a house without the sound of children or teenagers. I’ve always loved children and the sudden emptiness makes me question, all the more forcefully, what to do with the remainder of my life. In a sense, we live for our children while they’re with us; and when they leave some of us, I guess, aren’t quite sure what we’re living for.

        of seagulls as the tide recedes—autumn

    71 September 6th 2021