Disinterested in Gloom

Nature is indulging herself again

tossing out one of her famous

seasonal tantrums; weeping sky

utterly haggard, grey countenance,

hoarse whispers of angry denial in 

wind whirling through treetops and 

no relief in sight from those deep

doldrums of miserable disaffection;

it is by any account a gloomy day.

We are not invested in glumness

nor is the cardinal, tuning out the

cloud-bruised lid above, ringing

the woods with its trill.  An owl's

steady querying response is more 

playful than mournful.  An ovenbird 

calls, inviting the lunatic glee of a 

Pileated, besotted with spring.  And 

a nuthatch creeps downside up, 

quite disinterested in gloom.