. . . . . . . . . .
. . . taiga . . .
. . virtually . .
. . . . a . . . . .
. . . haiku . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

windswept rain —
everyone I pass
a Buddha

limpid stream . . .
my eyes hold on
to nothing

mountain mist
almost to see through
not a word to say

mobile call —
the spring in her voice
in the rain