The Vortex has bolted;
The Express left;
The sun, moon and stars
Conspire in the sky
In imitation of Spring,
Before the final plunge.

Then, the Red-winged,
Red-breasted and
Yellow-footed featheries
Will nest and roost
Where I don't want them.

The droppings of winter
Are exposed;
Last Fall's leafy refuge
Upbraid me;
Winter's cover
Is pulled back,
The slumber ends.

I am compelled
To join the festival,
Buy gasoline
For Spring's toys.
I will,
Perhaps,
Be calm
By November.