The French Horns and Trombone
carrying over the wood tops
while you poke a twig near the river.
Between the tiny frog burps and the cricket
wings chirp. The sun came up again.
Fool on you. Tasting the droplet,
put fingertips in pocket. Dream about
the flutes are going with a timpani
a dragonfly takes a picture of the
hues of green reflected in the stream
and all above
snare drowns out a harp.
Electric guitar fires up
a few hillocks away from here,
but loud enough to sing along.
Sing along if you'd like
to
like
like to.
Days and years and a few
long blinks.
A cymbal does its best to crash.
A fire does its best to belch up ash,
while a flask is emptied. A top its head.
The stars look a bit a clearer now
with the sounds of laughter
and running dogs without leashes.
The weather's been funny,
I don't know how
anyone manages to sleep these days
before Spring hits full swing.
I thought we had a thing, you know,
A snowman building contest.
Or at least an open skate.
The breezes taste long and
the air is wet.
Thunder and lightning came back to bed.
The river won't freeze and just like that
Winter is over.
