… my spiritual ritual solidifies, ring the singing bowl, read some poetry, write what it tells me, ring the singing bowl… the poetry i read this morning and last Sunday is the Haiku of Basho, which is perfect given that Haiku in general and Basho in particular, seek to find the universe in the particular… discrete, almost inconsequential moments, except that attention is paid, the poet moved and characters brushed onto paper…

… i make a picture of Fiona sleeping…

… earlier, i hear what i think is a cardinal, singing in the dark…

… i continue to be disappointed that the cicada aren’t numerous, yet… maybe it is too early…