Mid-March

I can sense it now Less away than a quarter-turn on the wheel Just two warm bright days And the sense is of coming spring There will be winter yet But things are at their ugliest Dirty snow Its withered banks hover above Puddled conglomerate Outdoors cannot get uglier Though the Gods throw rot on the wind Just two warm bright days And the squirrels cease burying nuts Stray cats less hungry turn up later for scraps Birds are more particular in their fare There is subtle breath withheld but out there somewhere