suddenly
the garden birds vanish -
a sparrow hawk

at our store of nuts
for the birds, a tiny field mouse
scurries away

same time, same place
the waterfowl wait
for the bread lady

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Kikaku was a student of the celebrated haiku poet Matsuo Basho. One day, very pleased with himself, he approached Basho with a haiku he had just composed, and he read -

pulling off
the wings of a dragonfly
a red pepper

Basho shook his head and said -

adding wings
to the red pepper
a dragonfly

Kikaku had realised that a big red Japanese dragonfly without wings would look very much like a red pepper.

But the Japanese haiku poets held everything in reverence, all human beings, all creatures, indeed all nature, and so Basho had found his student’s verse unacceptable.

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