A Quarterly Journal of Contemporary English Language Haibun
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December 2008, vol 4 no 4

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Paul Hunter



A few days of strong wind have hit the city. At night the swaying trees moan, creak, and rain down twigs. Just after midnight I awoke to an unearthly roar. From our bedroom window I watched the composter that our neighbour put out for anyone who wanted it, making it's escape. The "For Free" sign flapped ecstatically ahead of it—pointing the way. The big plastic beast had left the lawn and very, very slowly travelled down the center of the road toward the park, sounding its own alarm along the way.

March storm
the ginger tom's fur
combed by the wind

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