Orchidbreathing Incense Into Butterfly's Wings

A Thicket Of Summer Grass / Is All That Remains / Of The Dreams Of Ancient Warriors.

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

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

Winter Garden, The Moon Thinned To A Thread, Insects Singing.

Felling A Tree And Gazing At The Cut End - Tonight's Moon