Kate Buck

Branches still jumping;

Quickly fleeing through the trees

The squirrel dances

(trad.)

The sausages move

Inconspicuously

Across the garden

A single pigeon

stops to pluck the berry tree

the door! — wings scatter

(trad.)

sunlight’s blinking flowers

dancing in bruised whispers

the winking pansy

I drink my green tea

and think about the universe

and contemplate death