Haiku by A.J. Huffman

Acorn foragers
harvest transport and stockpile
hibernation's fuel.


Chlorophyll retracts,
green withers to arid brown,
shatters in fall's breath.


Last year's seeds take root,
grow vines that yield engorged orbs
waiting to be carved.


Scarecrow sags in field
stripped bare by harvesting blades,
mourns ghosted crops.


Feathered flightlings launch,
set bearings for warmer winds,
sands of southern shores.



A.J. Huffman has published nine solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming: Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing).  She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, haiku and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com