Suddenly the grass is green
red buds tip the maples,
the pussy willows
now,
low, soft, yellow clouds above the marsh.
The voice of each bird melts into a single song
A strong, warm, spring wind washes away the winter
Clouds mix it up in the sky
The plotting rain,
first life before man’s God,
when the Earth was in her earliest season
I foolishly think it’s safe to put the snow shovels away.
The wet snow packs hard under my snowshoes, with each step I carry a brick beneath my foot.
Long shadows like purple ribbons undulate on the swells of snow that cover the ground in the woods.
The naked tree tops wink at me in every color of the rainbow. All around me, the crinkle of bits of ice breaking from the branches. They drop in the snow making smooth round pocks and divots.
The faint, snow-blurred feet of a rabbit. The thread-thin foot and tail prints of mice going from tree to tree. A mole or vole plows a wavy line that ends in a hole. The feet, brush of wings, and feet again of a small bird. Where Biddy’s body is slowly disappearing, the tracks of a single coyote circle her remains which have been dug up from the snow.
Snow fleas gather, speckling the snow gray at the base of a tree.
How do they choose the tree? Are they always in the sun, or maybe north of the tree? How long do they live? Where do they come from?
Since I have learned what snow fleas are, they are no longer invisible to me.
Flurries float like birdsong
A decoration on the day.
Enough space between each one to be individuals.
In the marsh, a mallard hidden in the rushes, sounds like a chicken laying an egg.
I’m not dressed warm enough.
The morning dew is icy, the metal gate, cold on my hands
Yet the grass is still long and green
Unusual for early September.
The shorter days feel like a sad ending
But the chilled air is a welcome memory, the only nostalgia I can bear.
I’m standing on the back porch without expectation. I only know I need to be outside.
Small deep blue clouds fill the sky. The clouds closest to the moon are edged in moonlight.
The moon is a boat of hard light.
There is one red star (or is it a planet) on the horizon and higher, a sparkle here and there between the quick-moving clouds.
Now a flash of light in the southern sky. Lightening softened by distance.
Crickets and frogs hum steadily, a blanket infusing the air, caressing my bare skin.
On top of that, an owl singing the night.
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