Morning Poem, January 14, 2017

I wonder why the birds leave early

By late August, great, black flocks of them are gone

Why then?  We’ll have another six weeks of warm weather

They would have everything here then that they have had in June.

And now in late February, the Robins return

To snow-covered acres and frozen streams

They are without food now and cock their heads as if confused

Time and again I hear reports of farmers finding scores of them frozen in some field

Why are their internal calendars so far off, so far ahead of the season

Weren’t these behaviors inculcated by natural selection over millennia?

Did autumn come earlier ten thousand years ago?  And Spring the same?

And then in early March I wander through the soggy woods

Where bits of snow still rest in shaded corners

And on one south hillside I see the May Apple lush and green

Spilling down the hillside like a stream, born in a day

And I know that the early hope is the perfect hope


copyright 2017

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