Flood Season, Saint Christopher, and Mid-October Haibun

By Seth Copeland

Flood Season

cornflowers & firewheels

dip in the wind

before a flash flood

every time we dream of

leaving this place

it tries to drown us

river plums

bloat up a creek

a cold stew of sick eyes

watching blank

Saint Christopher

A great-horned owl

on Maryland Avenue seems

to be in every tree at once—

death song—a crossing

I can’t yet make for anyone.

We’re alone this foggy nightwalk,

Curse and I, but I won’t follow.

A car highbreams a grainy spray.

I meekly wave. It moves by.

Across town, I hear the old man’s

out again with the lantern.

I’m not looking for answers

but to be one, a stooped vehicle,

knees popping underneath,

loyal and happy to be of service,

a stray for strays, cocking my

head, pawing at my snout.

Mid-October Haibun

for Peter Burzynski

You post pictures of pickle soup on Instagram from your life in the Slovak Republic, blessed with a rare good thing from the state—funding for the arts. I think of us at your going-away party, backyard talk and dancing cats, Okocim, heaping bowls of hunter’s stew, slaps of pickled cherries on a paper plate, and that ancient way a fire makes those close to us glow. Till our further fires, we drift in a separate together, toward some mutual autumn.

ash leaves cling
the roads weep
when we cannot

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