Dave Bonta's poem is a series of small snapshots from one warm early-spring day, seen by someone sitting quietly outdoors. The speaker seems relaxed and attentive, even a little playful: closing one eye, then the other, is the kind of idle thing you do when you're simply soaking up the sun. The bird call of the phoebe sets a rhythm, and the pants on the line seem to join in.
The poem moves between gentle and rough moments. A groundhog fight ends with the winner sitting calmly while flies settle on his face, and the cattails shed their fluff like fur. Then everything slows down. A squirrel's tail is "as slow as spring," and a vulture's shadow stretches up and down every tree. The last image, forsythia blooming indoors in a vase, feels like a small surprise. The mood is patient, observant, and quietly happy, as if spring is something you notice by paying close attention.