Labor Day weekend—
 
near the hotel balcony,
 
doves make up some songs.

 
 

Little desert dove,
 
although the sun is sizzling,
 
you pour out cool songs.

 
 

The cherry blossoms,
 
having no more songs to sing,
 
mutely leave the tree.

 
 

Withered and fallen,
 
no more do cherry blossoms
 
sing their fragrant songs.

 
 
 

I will miss you, Earth,
 
and your hundred million songs,
 
when I have to leave.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
are you composing new songs
 
for Christmas morning?

 
 
 

The autumn mountains,
 
their steep and stony pathways—
 
these will be my songs.

 
 
 

California drought—
 
on an autumn afternoon
 
we sing songs for rain.

 
 
 

Chilly autumn rain—
 
do you still have songs to sing,
 
little brown sparrow?

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
now that autumn has arrived,
 
you sing tiny songs.