Just Before April Came

The snow piles in dark places are gone. Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear. The gravel of all shallow places shines. A white pigeon reels and somersaults. Frogs plutter and squdge — and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody. Crows go in fives and tens ; they march their black feathers past a blue pool ; they celebrate an old festival. A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs. I might ask: Who are these people?