Category: Poetry

It’s March, but still too early.
No nectar to nourish the depleted hummingbird,
probing skeletal blueberry plants.
No open water to bathe the trumpeter swan,
webbed feet now improvised snowshoes,
goose-stepping (the indignity!) across the frozen lake.

Upon a sand bar,an odyssey ends.The tide recedesand with it,life. A final flare of gills,one last gaping yawn,an electric shudder, andall grows still. But,a river