Quiescent and
perfectly
balanced—here at last
on the first
expectantly
raw but not yet
bleeding
edge
of April—we may,
if we like—
each begin
to observe
those
scraps of wild woods
we love most
in our world—presently and unmistakably
growing;
not yet
a bit greener,
but rather
gradually—if not
altogether
musically—
louder,
and more
and more
jampacked—with melody.
