The permafrost recedes and the animals peeking their heads out of the burroughs they were buried in and they begin their quest for a lover, to repopulate the species again and to feed after the long harsh winter, and to gain experience and memories of how to do so.

The frosty winds turn cool and the sun warms their faces and souls. The hope of meeting their potential partners are enough to defrost and soothe the ice on their coats, rendering them capable to breed. With their legs stretched and active, they search.

They hunt and breed for the whole spring within their respective community. The revirie of their population gaining on other predators give them a better chance for survival amongst all odds.

I have been buried in ice for thousands of years. I have been waiting for my turn to hunt and search for my lover, my community, and my wife. I have been straggling behind my species for a lifetime.

Is it my turn yet?
Is it my chance to do well amoungst the Mohikans?

I certainly hope so.

Happy Spring, poets.