Most people would greet snow in March with a groan. Winter has overstayed, and spring feels overdue. Dave Bonta's short poem does the opposite. It treats the snow as a gift, something that "brings marvels," and then it shows us what he means.
The marvels are small and specific: a phoebe, a type of small bird, diving for snow fleas; a chipmunk's tracks pressed into the snow; a turkey vulture flapping its wings. None of these is dramatic, and that seems to be the point. The speaker is paying close attention, and the late snow makes ordinary animal life easier to see.
The mood is quiet, curious, and a little delighted. The poem doesn't explain or argue. It simply lists what it notices, and the plain, unhurried lines let us share the speaker's pleasure in watching. The poem suggests that surprise is available even when the weather isn't what we hoped for.