Cold December rain—
 
if the maple trees could speak,
 
maybe they’d complain.

 
 

Little purple plum,
 
if you had a voice and tongue
 
you could sing with me.

 
 

Tell me again, wind,
 
why you’ve placed your loud spring voice
 
on the raven’s wing.

 
 
 

With its rasping voice
 
a crow shakes an inch of snow
 
from the cedar tree.

 
 
 

Autumn misfortune—
 
my phone’s battery falters;
 
your voice fades away.

 
 
 

To the fading light
 
of an autumn afternoon
 
a crow gives its voice.

 
 
 

Wane, strawberry moon!
 
I’ll keep following the voice
 
of the great horned owl.

 

 
 
 

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

 
 
 

Where do stones come from?
 
How did the crow get its voice?
 
Why do you ask, child?

 
 
 

January fog
 
muffles the voices of crows
 
on my neighbor’s fence.