Mrs Eliot sets us to writing haiku,
which strikes me as teaching bait-worms to fish.

I’ve never seen a class exhibit such furrowed-brow consternation.

We’re hunched at our desks, as helpless

as the Founding Fathers must’ve been

tryin’ to come up with that We the People line.

In any case we’re at it.

Laura writes on spring:

Through the sidewalk crack

comes the first of spring’s heralds—

dandelion roars.

Regina writes on summer by anticipating fall:

Mare beneath the elm

flicks her tail in impatience

for fall’s cooling breeze.

Seventeen syllables is a mouthful and then some for Colt.
He writes on fall:

Frisky calves butt heads,

sunning dams bring up their cud—

have themselves a chaw.

I haven’t made up my mind which season to write on.

Winter seems so harsh,

spring and fall all too easy,

summer’s but a blink.