I heard the birds chirping for the first time today.
A seasonal yawn across the horizon.
A feeling of ready,
Humming all around.
While swirly winds play with gravity.
A smell of morning cereal,
Dirty ice islands.
Melting slowly, remarkable slow,
Full of the ghosts of road salt and snowballs.
Breathing their last.
Bendable, pliable, gradual Spring.
Choking chill from existence.
Guiding the colder shadows to hibernation,
Until next year.
Obscuring the cold dark death of things.