Unstoppable

In the season of still-deep-winter
have you noticed
the wild things drawn
beyond this moment?

The juncos have begun trilling
from the treetops,
their restless hearts gladly
anticipating the prospect of moving on,
moving back.
And a single robin whinnies
in the damp woods across the road,
not yet singing, but heeding the
the pull towards longer days and
the hormonal shift
that awaits.
As do the bluebirds,
chortling their sweet notes,
flirting and pairing up,
preparations beginning,
the future on 
their minds.

Snow still lies heavy
on the land
and yet, the inexorable
movement towards spring
has begun, unfolding in
its own time, 
unstoppable,
untamable,
holy.

Have you noticed?

On This Frozen Ash Wednesday Morning

 

They are both calling, a 
duet of sorts, two species
in conversation. Or perhaps three,
my own soul responding 
as I enter in, as I breathe a sigh
of relief at their song
on this grey and
frozen morning, before 
the next round of snow.

Communion between cardinal
and wren. Between them and me.
Between God and them and me
and all that is on this
bright and frozen morning,
before the next
round of snow.

Of Skunk Cabbages and Cardinals (or Hope in the Bleak Late Winter)

They have emerged, unlikely
harbingers of spring's coming
glory, their
inobtrusive mottled
heads rising through the
frozen muck melted by the
heat of their own bodies.
In the days ahead,
at just the right moment,
their humanly unappreciated scent
will draw first-of-the-year
flies and beetles
to feast on their, as-yet-undeveloped,
pollen.

He sings this morning, an exuberant  
rhythmic, clear whistle  
not heard since last spring, 
when he was courting.
February is too early for courting
and yet, in the now,
as the sun rises higher and
the daylight lengthens,
he tunes his voice and
his hopes towards
what is to
come. 

As do I.