March

The mornings
when the ice chips
on roofs curl
and snow sparrows fill our yard
as an aviary of grackles
and blackbirds gather
cramming near the shed,
a squirrel’s shadow appears
on the tree boughs.

March is absurd!
Only a breath between seasons.
The squirrel now rests
on the hammock
then hides as if in mourning.

I’m tossing old Russian coins
over the almond-colored pond
where skaters tossed snowballs
a short week ago.

Now my winter’s kopeks
trickle in this crippled water.
We wait for first light
and skip on leaves
from drop-cloth woods,
cautious,
spring is close at hand.