A sliver of winter. That's all we get in the tropics. Closets come out. A pride of colours. Colours that stripe my woolen scarf, check that flowy overcoat and dot the quirky high boots I bought just for this season. I step out, wishing for snowflakes, like the ones that fell from the sky to clothe mighty mountains up north.
I was there just last week. Walking up The Dayara Bugyal trail, through rhododendron forests, a gentle climb to high altitude meadows nestled in the heart of the Himalayas.
Bare walnut trees, waking up, were sprouting baby green leaves. Wheat fields swayed to the rhythm of sunlight. Birds stopped to suck nectar from red rhododendrons. Dotting the landscape were these artistically gnarled leafless trees covered in pink sprays of inflorescence. Cherry? I asked in my botanic ignorance. Haha No they said. We’re not in Japan. This is Tilini.
On air. I’ve got to watch my words. Every single prejudice out there is a landmine. Every policy however democratic, seems to be more divisive than ever. What can I say? what words will work for all? Are we United in name only?
soaring on thin air bald eagle paints skies blue stars hide in bright light
Frank Tassone’s Haikai challenge #167 #175 – This week, write the haikai poem of your choice (haiku, senryu, haibun, tanka, haiga, renga, etc.) that allude to either the Wolf Moon (Ōkami no tsuki) or the hawk (taka)