A tinfoil sky clamped
tightly over the world,
has bestowed a cold, wet
blustery day, not a likely
candidate for a pleasant
ramble through the woods.
Rain descends, dimpling
the dark surface of the
clay-bottomed creek.
Heedless, from a nearby
ivory-green poplar trunk,
the rhythmic clacking of
a woodpecker, its red cap
a fiery blaze on the spring
monotone. The untidy
underbrush, piled with fall's
detritus wafts the delicate
odour of spring rain.
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