How balmy it is;
Sheets of ice are melting.
Strange January.

The stream is lazy;
It whispers in the warm sun.
The ice is all gone.

Tweety, tweety, tweet--
The bird thinks Spring is here.
Much winter remains.

Woods are still today;
Snow patches belie the sun.
What season is this?

Somewhere there's a stream;
It whispers from the deep woods.
I cannot see it.

Brown on brown on brown:
Shopping bag lies in the woods.
Perfect camouflage.

Crow caws in the sky;
A heating truck whooshes by.
The stench of cities.

Translucent in sun
Thick icicle keeps its shape.
Meeting of seasons.