When in the beginning of winter, in a train to Vienna, I was reading haiku Krzysztof Żarnotal had written within last three decades and sent them to me surprisingly and unexpectedly after a dozen or so years of no contact, years that in fact as if didn’t exist, I saw a meadow at once, our meadow, a green ribbon running from the garden up to the trees at the river, and sticks-stems with flowers of words on them. It was to be like that, but it is not. Because it is never like it is to be – it is always as it is and can’t be the other way round. This time we were crushed by the heat we have never experienced here so far. That is why the meadow of haiku had to be replaced, alas, by the garden of haiku; only a few last poems were brave enough to appear on the meadow burning hot, and only where the trees protecting the vineyard from the west cast some shade late in the afternoon. We began with music: Teresa Nowak, Tadeusz Sudnik, Darek Makaruk and myself. When our sonic haiku faded away in the sluggish chirping of numb birds and sultry, green silence, we set out to read what was to be read. We did it. Then we were talking about it, about this, and about that, as well. Until the cruel sun went out, and it was a little bit cooler, though we knew well enough it only seemed so.