The trees are rustling
back
to the woken world
this week.
They shift their weight
of white, and wait,
dreaming of green.
Spring is trickling in at last,
sliding aside the snowbanks
in its own sweet time.
All in good time.
Soon enough
we are sloshing through
slush,
mucking through mud,
ankles to eyeballs in
clouds of dust.
All the while, the world
is tilting,
tilting,
tipping toward the sun.
On sunshine breezes,
summer birds chirp,
a-flirt and a -flutter,
winging their way
back North.
We year-round ravens
squawk
our indignation,
(fascination)
flap our feathers and gawk
at the gaudy colours.
Winter is dripping away,
one rooftop at a time.
waving au revoir.
It never goes for long.