It’s hurricane season in Florida. I know it’s not a universally-accepted season; certainly not celebrated in most Eurasian locales. It is a deadly reality here. As I look out at the Oak trees that thinned their canopies in gusts up to 80 miles per hour, I can see more clearly the tiny, indistinct birds, the dragonflies, and the mud-daubers that populate what’s left above the trunks.
Why do I write the way I do? Damned if I know. I simply respond to who, what, or where and stuff comes out. Sometimes it’s crazy, or funny… but I can be deadly serious, as anyone who’s read my works know well. I’ve been at the beginning of life (my son) and at the end of living (more times than I could ever count). Everything I’ve done in life (also more than I care to count) gets poured into the mix. And I respond to great writing. I pull up a Basho haiku:
But for a woodpecker
tapping at a post, no sound
at all in the house
That’s kind of how it felt at our house after the twelve-hour wind barrage quietened down. Something like shell-shock followed.
Wind stopped finally
Egrets return to the pond
peacefully to fish
It’s Haibun Night at dVerse Poet’s Pub. Follow the link to see what’s required, and feel free to join in.