First day of the month—
 
a crow ruffles its feathers,
 
my plum tree trembles.

 

 
 
 

On a warm spring day
 
a crow visits my fountain,
 
dips his beak, and drinks.

 

 
 
 

From a red-tile roof
 
a crow blacker than midnight
 
hurls insults at me.

 

 
 
 

Crow on the fencepost,
 
can’t you still your noisy tongue
 
for just three seconds?

 

 
 
 

All day long the wind
 
keeps up its fearsome roaring,
 
blowing crows off course.

 

 
 
 

From high in the pine
 
a crow showers down insults
 
on the gardener.

 

 
 
 

Buffeted by wind,
 
a crow on its homeward way
 
steers a crooked course.

 
 
 

Understand this, crow,
 
your intimidating voice
 
cannot make me flee.

 
 
 

Tell me, sister crow,
 
now that Christmas Day is past,
 
does the light still shine?

 
 
 

Up from the river,
 
then up, up to the mountain
 
a weary crow flies.