The following haibun was first published in April 2025 edition of cattails:

I am lying in my crib, staring at the dark ceiling. This is one of my first memories. Above the window is an empty, white plant hook. When cars drive by, their headlights bathe the room in blue. When they come down the hill, the light washes from left to right: when they come from the highway, right to left. A shadow stretches from the hook, long and distorted. It looks like a man in a trench coat, collar flipped up, wearing a fedora, his eyes barely visible between the top of the collar and the hat’s wide brim. When two cars pass at once, the shadow moves back and forth, back and forth. His outstretched hand is knocking . . . knocking . . . knocking . . . on an old woman’s door.

I complain to my parents for days to remove the hook. My two-year-old logic cannot explain, but they comply, confused. Yet the shadow remains knocking in my mind.

even now . . .
in clouds, treetops, churches
silent swirling shadows