These six haiku read like quick entries in a nature journal, each catching a single moment outdoors or close to home. The speaker pays attention to small things: a newt, a mushroom, a moth, a patch of moss. Some images are gentle, like the rain that makes the "dry canyons" of a moss garden vanish, as if a tiny landscape had been given back its water. Others are quietly harsh, like the two spiders feeding on a white moth under the night-blooming flower.
The poems also have a dry sense of humor. Pounding a stuck window with a Chinese dictionary is a funny, ordinary scene set against the blossoming witch hazel. The mosquito in the ear interrupts a thoughtful look at twisted heartwood, so beauty and annoyance share the same breath.
The mood is curious, observant, and unsentimental. The speaker doesn't lecture about nature. He simply notices that life, death, repair, and irritation all happen side by side, often at a very small scale.