Often in the early morning, waiting for folks to show up to the cafe, I’ll sit and write. My brain isn’t up and running yet, so most times all I get are flashes, scraps of images or lines to work with. I think that’s why like to think of haiku, that rigorously (and beautifully) condensed form, as the poetry of work — short, concrete, immediate. Write one on the bus, on break, in the bathroom. Just write them.
Here’s one I wrote one day recently, remembering one of my most loved places:
High desert at dawn.
Pale blue. Hawk hovers. Deer ruts.
God tarried here.