While folks living further to the north have no illusions about winter being over and folks further to the south rarely get the full-on winter experience, we here in the middle–the Appalachians–are suffering that in-between season.
We just had a major hit of snow and while we KNOW spring is a long ways off today is . . . warm. It’s downright mild. The sun’s been shining, the snow is mostly gone, and those fool robins keep dancing around in our yards.
It’s enough to give a person hope. At least for a minute.
The yard is full of robins.
Fat and quick they flutter
like snowflakes falling before
the storm really arrives.
Just enough to draw my
attention—to make me look.
A frog is awake in the pond
below the house—he sounds
like a chicken clucking, like
children squabbling, like spring.
Just enough to turn my head—
to make me listen.
A neighbor works in his yard,
moving rocks and dirt and sticks.
He stirs the soil like plowing, like
planting the first promise of the year.
Just enough to tickle my nose—
to make me breathe . . . again.
But the calendar doesn’t lie the way
a day in February can. Those tips of green
will soon send their regrets and bow down
under the weight of stillborn hope.
And the robins will scatter to the wind.