haibun
A Quarterly Journal of Contemporary English Language Haibun
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June 2008, vol 4 no 2

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Patrick Pilarski

 

Our Bridge

Hands sticky with pine sap, we make our own bridge. Two fallen trees, roots sticking out of the muddy creek bank, old man's beard waving slowly in brown water. We inch out along the rough bark. Half-way across, my hand slips. A twig snaps. Falls to the creek. Is carried away.

brown trout
hides between the rocks—
too many shadows

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