In Carl Sandburg’s “Just Before April Came,” winter is loosening its grip. The last snow has melted from dark corners, puddles gleam by the railroad tracks, and gravel catches the light. The speaker watches the natural world stir back to life: a white pigeon tumbles through the air, frogs begin a thin, metallic chorus, and crows march past a blue pool as if taking part in some old celebration. Even a spider and a small pink bug on the speaker’s hand seem busy and alive. The mood is fresh, alert, and quietly joyful. The final question—“Who are these people?”—is gentle and wondering. It suggests the speaker feels a kind of kinship with these creatures, as if all of them are fellow beings returning to the world together.
Just Before April Came — Summary
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?