Mist rises from the cattails, last years flowers glowing. In a blink it’s gone.
Dew sparkles and flickers in the close cropped grass. The longer I look the more colors I see.
A broken hacksaw blade, rusty, long and pointed with a serrated edge looks like a branch among the stones. Has it been there all these years, or did it come up from the ground with the spring melt?
Slate on the old foundation thrown into shadow and glowing in the sun at the same time as blue as Blue Agate.
A sleek sharp winged bird slips out of the barn and over my head. My eyes see Barnswallow, but I know it too early.
They always come the first of May.
