Spring; arrival
When, awake one day, the air feels different.
Warmer, maybe, dirt wicking up through snow.
And blood from some coyote kill
tunneling down on the sharpness of its departing heat.
When, wandering in the new sun, you think no one is around
and pee at the bend in the long driveway
surprising the neighbor, his black lab, and his Chihuahua.
When your friend’s car skids into a snowbank on melt ice, and, with two pushing
must slide sideways 100 feet downhill to go straight.
The sense of unsticking
and motion again.
When there is mud, inexplicably, on all of your pants.
When you crack the windows for the first time
and it is still too cold
but oh well.
When the strike of sun sends air runneling from hilltop into valley,
forcing woodsmoke and ash back into the house
on its blow.
When wasps fly from the wall while you’re on the phone and
fuckfuckfuckOW!
and the man on the other end of the line
hears tinny yells of vengeance and swatting.
When the snow has crusted, and the dogs walk atop it
digging for mice in every sage well
carrying the sharp scent home in their fur.
When the great gray owl greets you on the road some nights
and some nights twice
and most you ever see
is the diagonal flash of its wings.
When, bewildered by sound, you look up into a ponderosa and realize
it is full of birds, returned.
When pairs of them lift and
stitch the blued sky with song.
This post originally appeared on The Last Word on Nothing in March, 2019. To support more work like this in the future, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.