through the pines, and everywhere
trees are greening,
smudges of new against the sky.
i hear careful rustlings above me
and lift my head in time
to see a tip of squirrel’s tail
as she slips into her nest of oak leaves.
the pine affords her twining branches
for anchor - the oak a myriad
of stuffs for nesting, and the
spring brings forth new life.
a dove coos, far off, and now
the ever-present cardinal song,
his spring song — only in spring.
what other season so aptly
sings the hope of life