I've seen them beat away the edges

of their wings

die on the pathway

watched funerals attended

by tens and twenties of

small blue brushfoots

But it is spring

and small white flowers

bask on hill and in bower

called something terrible

like blood root

And the sunny flower

so eager it can't wait

for its leaves is coltsfoot

already looking like snowy fields

The turkey paces me on

the way to town, but the

fat brown ground hog

spartles up the hill, drill

he sometimes loses

I braked for two squirrels

and mourned two others who

hadn't made it; and a baby 'sum

and skunk. Spring, always this

battle of death with life

life winning this round

jjl

24 Aprille 2009