Yama (the lord of death) is nearby, 

We all can feel his presence

Running up our spines.

Outstretched branches of a dead tree

twisted in non-movement

of ambiguous shapes

A turkey vulture

Draws wide circles in the sky

In search of death.

An orange colored sun

Descends in the western sky

In a fit of rage.

’tween its muddy banks
The stream rushes at its own pace
Not caring what we think

Seventy years old

Twenty-five thousand days

I still don’t know a damn thing.

The tall white egret

Lifts off from lush green rice fields

Good bye, friend, good bye.