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A dry wash in Apache County, Arizona

“I hear America singing,” Walt Whitman wrote, “the varied carols I hear.”
I too hear singing, but instead of songs coming from throats of carpenters, masons or boatmen, I hear the songs of sky and star and stone. The songs of weeds and wind and wild things. The songs of crow and cricket and cottonwood. All these songs come from the high desert, and like the Siren songs that seduced Odysseus and his companions, I cannot ignore them.
I hear them as I help a student proofread her essay. I hear them while I confer with a parent about his son’s behavior. I hear them while I am grading papers.
At day’s end, I slip into comfortable clothing and walk into the nearby wilderness. The stones and weeds and dust greet me with rejoicing. They knew I would come.


a cricket chirrups
three stones confer with the wind—
my house is too small

Revised haibun © 2016 and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Poetry Pantry #323 at Poets United



election results—
how devastating to all
who ran well but lost
~~ ~~ ~~
gossamer prison—
steely strands of spider web
clamping a cricket
~~ ~~ ~~
migraine and nightmare—
plummeting into the depths
of a fearsome hell

© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Three Word Wednesday: “Devastate, Gossamer, Plummet”