Mallard like lightning,
out of the green pond in May —
we walk in the sun.

The gray-backed warbler,
streaked, as drawn with black marker —
chest yellowed loosely.

Sparrows chattering
in their house in springtime,
the warbler, quiet.

My mother burns leaves,
I pull weeds under May sun —
the warbler perched, rests.

Gentle on each branch,
quiet, quiet at each bloom,
the warbler comes through.

The young cardinal
sings louder than the highway
above the spring marsh.

Color of the field,
knowing spring fills it all in —
the deer walks through it.

Starting evening song,
the goldfinch in the ginkgo —
his beak to the sun.

His song like heartache,
he gives it away for free
to the whole forest.

His singular song
saved for this April forest —
up down and up down.

It’s getting later,
chickadees revelating,
there is more to say.

Color coming in,
a Robin in every tree —
each one breathing life.

He stood on a rock,
huge on the river bottom,
then stepped in the flow.

Earnest in springtime,
he pulls songs deep from his chest
that bounce off the sky.

for Thornton Wilder

Who feels the prairie,
stops for the song sparrow’s song?
The saints and poets.

Just perched in springtime,
the green heron stands amazed —
at the sun, its warmth.

They move spring along —
blooming in the still-cold air,
balanced on bare limbs.

My mother’s plum tree.
reaches in from the abyss —
blooms opening slow.

A pair of mallards
like sentinels in springtime —
eggs at river’s edge.

Bloodroot and blue squill
open to woodpecker drums
in the spring forest.