All the signs are Spring:
The sun, the birds, the earth's smell.
Just the snow remains.

Past the open field
The wind blows across the snow
And tickles my ear.

From the trees or sky
A bird calls, far, far away.
No one answers it.

Shelf fungus on tree
As black as the snow is white.
Last Spring it was beige.

Green and further gray
Rolling mountains straight ahead.
There lies my homeland.