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Going home haibun


Just south of Numeralla the Rose Valley Road forks by the pines at the cemetery. One branch leads right, down to the crossing. Out through the inn’s open door music spills, lanterns flicker gold from the windows. A boat waits on the opposite bank for your signal, ferryman’s silhouette a stick insect against winter’s full moon rising. Silver light washes cold through the valley.


full moon on river
trout leaps high to reach a moth –
lands right on the moon


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