After a mild winter, Andy checks the propane level on the pig tank.
Something is under the cap.
He calls me over.
“Isn’t the sky the most amazing blue?” I say. “It’s like we’re wearing polarizing lenses over our eyes.”
Turkey buzzard looking for lunch.
“Talk about blue,” he responds, and lifts the peeling and somewhat rusty blue lid of the propane tank.
Five new tenants.
Smart momma-robin to build her nest under a roof!
“Greening” takes on a whole old meaning in rural Michigan after an early spring rain.
Fatcheeks in the birdfeeder.
Chippy’s mantra: Gotta fill my cheeks. Gotta fill my cheeks. Gotta fill my cheeks.
What does he know that we don’t?
“Ha, ha, ha–April Fools!” shrieked the red-winged blackbird, who really should have been announcing spring.
Cheery crocuses sing spring, thrifty in their waxy sheathes.
April Fools is for fools.
“I’m in heaven,” twitters the dark-eyed-junco, with a roof over his head and millet at his feet.
What more could he ask for?
Front yard feeder, open at 5am.
Mr. Junco says to Mr. Nuthatch, “Look, there’s plenty here for both of us. Just kick away the snow and you’ll find your stinking sunflower seeds. Leave the millet to me.”
General Black-Eyed doesn’t approve of Lieutenant Junco’s scratching technique.
“What’s all the fuss about?”
Sunrise a week ago.
My birthday ski, one year ago.
the sun rises relentlessly northward
degree by degree,
like a battalion marching to the front
and daylight lengthens by 13 minutes in a week
record temps teased summer for eight days in mid-March,
and coaxed crocuses
to push toward the light, not understanding
the danger, like infantry brainwashed
to react and not to think
on this day last year
buds bunkered down
below the snow
and we glided above on long boards, glad
for the cease-fire
before the spring-riot growth,
sweating only from exertion
Tags: poetry, spring