Not much out yet.
Hum of chain saws in the wood, ashes going down.
The landscape will change, borer beetle’s to blame.
The petite porch pooper from next door (Miedo says his tag)
yaps at me on my own turf,
brave now that my dogs are dead.
I still can’t say dearly-departed.
Two doves are building a nest in the scraggly pine,
next to the stone steps
where the trilliums are.
The squirrels will squirrel away their babies.
So soft-eyed they coo and bustle
I put seeds out
(and two dog biscuits: they’re not stale yet.)
There are chipmunks on Pride Rock again,
three red tulips,
blue jays, red cardinals, yellow weavers: spring music.
The raccoons have chewed a hole in the roof- now it leaks.
The carpenter bees are drilling.
I guess spring is here, at last.