Blades of green shoot up underfoot. Clumps of crusted snow. White birch greets me like a wanderer returned from foreign lands. The silent spruce grove, untouched by my tread, lays steeped in whispers.
River bends and turns
old man walking deep in thought
time seldom stands still
©2021 S. Michaels
As The Crow Flys – Haibun
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l i g h t room 