Like the haiku, the haibun originated in Japan, and Basho is again credited with developing it, through his travel journal known as Narrow Path to the Interior. A typical haibun consists of a prose piece and at least one poem, usually a haiku.  The haiku appears at the beginning, middle or end of the prose.  Some haiku are only a sentence or two long, while others are book length and feature artwork, called haiga.  Whatever the length, haibun are concisely written and descriptive, making use of all five senses.  The subject matter varies, but may involve a personal journey.  The journey can be real or symbolic, and usually ends with an insight.  Frequently, the haiku is an indirect comment on the insight.  More poetic than prosaic, haibun take readers on a voyage of discovery, especially self-discovery. The haibun I've posted here are quite different from each other.  The first one reflects my interest in desert like landscapes, while the second one offers a glimpse into my fascination with crime and forensics:

Aisinaiphi*

 Melting glaciers of the Ice Age created the geological area in southern Alberta known as Writing-On-Stone.  The water carved its way through the sandstone landscape, making oddly shaped rock formations called hoodoos.  The Blackfoot considered Writing-On-Stone a sacred site, and carved and painted pictures on the smooth rocks eons ago.  Today, Writing-On-Stone is a provincial park, with camping and visitor services, including guided rock art tours.  Signs in the park warn people not to deface or even touch the cliffs and hoodoos.

 side by side
on the soft sandstone
rock art and graffiti  

A hike along the interpretive trail seems to take one backward in time, to a lost world of heat, dust, rocks, insects, plants and stillness.  Nearby, the Milk River flows quietly toward the campground, as if bridging a gap between the stone age and modern civilization.

 hikers
leave their shoe prints
in ancient dust 

 *Where the Drawings Are

  This Is The Zodiac Speaking

After killing, he writes letters to the newspaper.  Taunts the police.  Promises to kill again.  Spells his name in code.

the Yellow Cab
parked on Cherry Street
doors flung open

It's never too late, in fiction or in life, to revise.  Nancy Thayer