
Red Peppers
The morning sun tapped each of the peppers spread across the yard. The seeds rustled, and a little red that hadn't yet dried still remained.

The morning sun tapped each of the peppers spread across the yard. The seeds rustled, and a little red that hadn't yet dried still remained.

I saw a flock of wild geese crossing the sky. I kept my head raised a long time, and my neck didn't ache.

The moment a single leaf fell, its ripple stilled everything else. The lake grows calm again, and only the red glow on the surface slowly spreads.

A yellow umbrella was mirrored in the puddle, then swayed in the wind and blurred into green.
Clear
I stopped at the end of the forest road. Yellow needles glint in the sunlight, and the mountain beyond the silver-grass ridge stands clear.

Today, too, I looked back that way. The streetlight spreads across the ground like a wet stain, and it takes a beat to know there is no one at the end of it. The alley that person used to walk down toward me has become the road I walk out along. Beneath the cherry tree that has dropped its leaves, I stop and slowly turn my back.