With Plinks and Ripples

Bright is the morning,
Sun flooding the trees and road
On the Ides of March.


The vivid sun rays
Burst through my kitchen windows;
(Shows me they are dirty).


Alfred knows me now;
Comes over and lets me scratch.
His horns are growing.


Morning of shadows--
Delicate twigs and thick trunks
Double in the sun.

Stuck in the bushes
Captive piece of thin plastic
Next to old bird nest.


Distant morning dove
Coos softly from the forest,
Never to be seen.


Patches of tar poop
Fill up the winter pot holes.
First scent of summer.


The melting snow bank
Drips into the roadside stream
With plinks and ripples.