Sublime Longing

To all things there is a season,
and there it is, the early morning
cacophony to alert us of that
impending other season. Our
slumbering snow-and-ice-encased
gardens are alive with melodious
joy and croaking triumph, alike.

In the trees and shrubs, yet to
welcome foliage, has arrived
returning redpolls, robins,
cardinals and crows, absorbed
in their ritual of dreamy, delirious
yearning to luxuriate again
in spring and in summer.

Their response to the warming
sun and variant breezy fragrance,
bubbling from deep within their
shared subliminal, collective
memory inherited by birth from
the dawn of time. Nature herself
will not presume to regulate
otherwise their sublime longing.