I thought I heard a chirping bird
just about this morning’s sunrise.
Don’t think a mating call I heard—
sounded like a shriek of surprise.
I was surprised, too, and quite so.
Not from the bird’s chirp. Well, perhaps.
There were puddles instead of snow,
and snow-plowed mountains in collapse.
That chirping bird and I both saw
the cautious springing up of spring.
But while that bird sang to the thaw,
I don’t think I’m done worrying.
Seasons ’round here don’t change like that.
Although winter has one more freeze,
the bird on its Tree Ararat,
celebrates forty-five degrees.
This morning it was just one bird,
soon maybe crickets will chirp, too.
But I think spring is seen not heard,
and that chirp’s too good to be true.
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