haiku plus

cat watches bluebird
electricity provides
then fuse blows indoors

that’s it in a nutshell. cat waits awhile but master has gone to the store. old-school, cat mopes outside, catches bird and plays with it but really, hanging out in the house, food and water dishes handy, is the way to go. Streaming while relaxing.

Photo courtesy of Sue-Z
for Sunday Photo Fiction

lagoon

“So that’s a real lagoon.”

“It beats the one I work at.”

“So how come you all call an artificial pool for the treatment of effluent a lagoon? Now when I look out here all I can think of is your sewage treatment plant.”

“Everybody in sewage calls the settling ponds lagoons. They don’t look all scenic like this, but they’re ok when the wind ripples the surface, if it weren’t for the smell.”

Photo courtesy of Artur Malishkevych

haiku

high on the food chain
master of the still forest
what’s this new highway

for Sunday Photo Fiction
Photo courtesy of DB McNicol via Pixabay

haiku

outdoors, the sun shines
birds call by a woodland stream
indoors, the humans

Photo from Morguefile
For Sunday Photo Fiction

snowman

 

Farmers, like wildlife, require predictable weather. Ice on the fruit or nut blossoms and after a bust year, the bank may own your place.

Same with marriage, in my experience. The wrong thing at the wrong time and you’re single again.

Late snow is Nature’s midlife crisis. It comes out of nowhere and disrupts the normal routines.

I got snowed on twice the same day. Orchards wiped out just as I’m leaving home with some clothes stuffed in a suitcase.

No school and the kids were having a good time building a snowman.

 

Photo by Jade Wong
For Sunday Photo Fiction

my woods

 

I grew up on the edge of woods. It was extensive and I spent a lot of time in it. When I headed off to college, my parents left their empty nest and moved to the city. I didn’t revisit my beloved woods for years.

Out of school, I went to work. I had ideas. I made a lot of money. Three-hundred billion dollars, in fact, which is… a lot of money.

When I finally returned to my woods, I found a subdivision. Average price of the midwestern homes in it, three-hundred thousand dollars. That is, one thousand homes per billion dollars.

Over a decade, I bought thirty-billion worth, thirty thousand homes. I built a twelve-foot wall around them. Removed the homes and built one for myself.

With the tracts for about forty-four homes per acre, the wall enclosed about one hundred and fifty thousand acres, or two hundred and twenty square miles. In the portions of the wall facing still-existing woods, I added portals that could be opened from sunset to sunrise, for the wildlife.

I had a new forest planted, and added a plank path that ran through it.

Now, in my dotage, I ride a golf cart out into my domain every morning.

 

Photo: Mike Vor
For Sunday Photo Fiction

Can’t you see the sign?

 

“Halt. Who goes there?”

“What? It’s me. Jerry.”

“You can’t be in here.”

“I’ve been taking this shortcut for ten years. It’s an empty parking lot.”

“Mr. Jones told us to lock it up.”

“Mr. Jones has a damned car. He don’t have to walk to work.”

“Just the same, he said to close the gate and lock it. Nobody gets in.”

“Ever since nine-eleven, everybody is locking every gate they’ve got. It don’t make any sense. There ain’t a terrorist in the county. There ain’t a Moslem in the county. Even if there was, what would they do in an abandoned parking lot?”

“Don’t matter. We’re locking it all down.”

“It’s bad enough I”ve got to climb over the fence. I ain’t going around.”

“Mr. Jones says shoot on sight.”

“Mr. Jones is crazy.”

“He may be crazy, but he’s also the the mayor, the owner of Jones’ Guns, and the principal of the dad-burned high school.”

 

Photo by Sascha Darlington
For Sunday Photo Fiction