On The Cusp Of Spring

The trees stand forlornly deep
in water, like small shallow lakes
their roots uncomfortably immersed
in melted ice and snow. Yesterday's
all-day rain and this day's sun with
mild temperature has transformed
into a vast marsh on the forest floor.

Crows, restless with the seasonal
nesting urge, gather and rise to
naked treetops, hoarsely, coarsely
call their intentions, then disperse,
roost momentarily, re-gather in a
flapping mass of dark wings over
the pellucid blue sky. Gulls, high on
the crests of wind-powered waves
call a far different tuneful arrival.

Through the masts of old pines
the wind moans, clangs and rubs
trunks of trees in an uneasy alliance
of propinquity, creaking, swaying
an agony of flexible strength. Wasted
limbs that had clung stubbornly aloft
descend to ground, clanking reproach.

The brilliant carmine head of a
pterodactyl-like Pileated woodpecker
peals its presence, the great bird
lifting wide wingspan to inspect huge
fallen logs green with moss, rough with
grey lichen; seeking rewards to be
had under rough-splintered bark.

On the hillsides, the receding snow
has left a patchwork quilt of white squares
and dun-green alternates. Rivers of
melt-water stream down natural gullies.
Where the sun's warming rays cannot
penetrate, thick frozen tongues of ice
resist imminent departure.

There are few haws left on hawthorn
trees; newly snow-freed ground reveals
still-green apples under wildly unruly
apple trees. Birds have puckishly picked
apart bitter-root berries and red Sumac
candles. Wild strawberry plants thrust
themselves into green assertiveness.
We stand on the cusp of Spring.