Fresh smell in the breeze;
Wind comes swirling down the hill
And stirs the pine tree.

The rolling green field,
Now touched by patches of brown.
Colors have reversed.

Phosphorescent haze
Floats yellow above my head
Fresh forsythia.

Fluttering white moth
Hovers above the dead leaves.
What is it seeking?

Christmas ornaments,
Still hanging from the mailbox
Sparkle in Spring light.

Stone wall in the woods
Climbs to the top of the hill
Camouflaged by rocks.

Crazy little bugs
Buzz frantic around my eyes;
A sure sign of Spring.

Fluttering black moth
Alights softly on the road
And becomes stillness.