Late morning sunshine;
Shadows falling on the snow.
Still looks like winter.
Sixty degrees out
(So the thermometer says).
But there still is snow.
Closer to the fence
Collette lifts her voice in Spring joy;
(Or to clear her throat).
Slowly circling
The hawk seems so nonchalant;
Not so the field mice.
Below the surface
Branches float in monochrome
Perpetually brown.
They're disappearing
This couple rounding the bend;
Now they're truly gone.
High in tall dead tree,
Distinguished just by its sound:
Woodpecker hammers.
Snaking from a rock:
Solitary sumac grows,
Reaching for the sun.
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