ALMOST SUMMER POEM

Cradled 

by the shade 

of a softly 

weeping crab apple, 

starlings 

bathing in the blossom-

spattered puddle—

stowaways, 

perhaps,

from some ancient 

sylvan past—

or else, 

augurs 

sent back (by 

ourselves?)

as a promise: 

the best is still

ahead of us.