Flight of the herons haibun

Suite No. 132 is at the end of the hallway, where nothing but a wide thick transparent glass is between me and the open air. The warmth creeps on my skin and drives away the shiver as I momentarily let the sun bathe me with light.

I notice the amber in the west a second before three knocks on the door. “Please, come in,” a female voice reaches my eardrum from the inside.

She rises from her chair the moment I show my face at the door, and rushes for a formal handshake with me.

outside the window
the flight of white herons

Chanel no. 5

I knew it won’t be a meeting we usually had in old days. “It’s been long, and you know where it goes,” she said emotionlessly. Not commanding, just a bit colder than her please-come-in.

years lost

what’s within the perimeter

of her deeper voice