The day of my birth
 
is like a misty mountain
 
seen from far away.

 
 
 

A crow in the oak
 
manages to croak out news
 
of a baby’s birth.

 
 
 

Feast day of my birth—
 
mist from the distant mountains
 
drifts across my path.

After

 
 
 

just after sunrise
 
a death in the nursing home
 
a birth in the woods