On A Bare Branch A Crow Is

Summer Grasses — All That Remains Of Great Soldiers' Imperial Dreams.

Harvest Moon: Around The Pond I Wander And The Night Is Gone.

Nothing In The Cry Of Cicadas Suggests They Are About To Die

Sitting Quietly, Doing Nothing, Spring Comes, And The Grass Grows, By Itself.

Seek On High Bare Trails Sky-reflecting Violets... Mountain-top Jewels