Just Before April Came

 THE SNOW piles in dark places are gone.

Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.

The gravel of all shallow places shines.

A white pigeon reels and somersaults.


Frogs plutter and squdge—and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody.

Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.

A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.

I might ask: Who are these people?

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