A Haibun I'm standing on a tiny balcony that nobody seems to know about, perched gently out behind the campus library, overlooking nothing in particular, and roaring with the rush of air from some sort of ventilation shaft behind me. There's no good reason for it, really, but this, to me, is one of the most peaceful spots on Earth. I've been here probably hundreds of times before during my four years at this institution, and it's really grown on me. I've had dates here. I've cried here. And I've just sat up here watching the world that can't see me. Hanging slyly over one of the rear entrances to the library, obscured slightly by a stubbily ridiculous ornamental tree, this balcony is a great place to observe people (or at least the tops of their heads) as they come and go, never thinking for a second that there might be someone above them. It's a great place for fragments, and arguments, and misunderstandings. And at night there are the stars. I think more than anything, I remember the stars. From here, there's nothing blocking you. No buildings, no trees, just a wide expanse of parking lot with a few untoublesome lights, and the cemetery beyond. In fact, the astronomy class sometimes sets up camp right below for their observations. I know what they're missing. So many times I've looked out on that broad, blue-black expanse, wieghed down with those tiny, numberless pin pricks of light. It beckons with the promise of infinity, eternity. Unlike my tenure here, it never seems to end. But there will be other balconies, and always the same flawless sky. lovers' balcony— beyond the cemetery infinite stars

Night walk— stars beyond the streetlamp