Rainsong On Sunday Morn

There’s rainsong on Sunday morn. The herald of Springtime reciting. A chorus of wings in the changeover. Unrelenting litany of praise from fowl. Nature, humble and knowing, cheeps loud and not silent, healing with peace. Chirping, stirring, Winter to be released. Forget the shadow of groundhog, lean into the melody of a wet ground, awaiting the plow and seeds, daffodils and hot sun. Sing O earth, be rattled by resurrection. What the robins and blue jays know. What common man, with hope not despair, hands opening the book where bonnie notes ebb and flow on fiery tongues, in air, shared on this very late Winter, a Sunday morn. 2/27/2022