there is a slender stream, slicing through my town
that must be traversed, to reach my home.
I’ve got a pipe in my pocket
and a head full of wine--
as I plunkplunk upon the bridgeplanks
an owl barks at the hovering moon--
there, over the sparkling trickle, I pause to light a bowl.
drawing smoke, the pipe’s orange glow swells to rival the moon--
without a sound, the owl takes flight--
and the moon winks.