Six Weeks To Spring

Brutal winds snap frozen branches, no drowsy Tree Sparrows soak up sun rays; I shiver wondering if they can survive... somewhere huddled together to stay alive! The Hudson River has the slowest flow in several years, it struggles to reach the huge Atlantic Ocean that roars; there all the boats are anchored while hungry seagulls search the icy waves for a prey that fears their beaks! Playful dolphins are seen often and amaze spectators, hawks perch on red maples and birches unless it snows; and watch them with killer eyes unable to defeat these creatures: they should be happy to catch bluefish and river herring, not these! Ebbs won't rise, as they do on moonlights, their surface is too bleak, and the absence of a plenilune surely predicts their imminent doom; there are six weeks to spring: isn't it the awaited relief we seek, or the longing for flowing water and weeping willows to bloom?