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.