March.
Rutted, half-frozen, mud-soup-ugly
tailspinning tire tracks and grizzled snow
shapeshifting to angry slush clogging
the windshield spray nozzles
on my Tacoma pickup.

April.
Glistening wet branches, swollen green
buds popping, sinful yellow Goldfinches,
black humus, fresh plantings outside
the library, and my stealing a cat-glance
at the landscaper’s helper.

Matthew is fortunate to sometimes live near a lake in Maine where loons swim and sometimes yodel and hoot late at night. And sometimes on a day like this with few clouds in the sky and mountains in the distance a warm breeze will sweep across the lake and take your breath away.