Even the worms that push to the surface in spring
extoll the wonders of a ground thaw, the warmth
of the sun pushing downward through the dirt.
It's generosity, the robins must think, as a buff
spreads before them, who subsisted on dry berries
that still clung to the vines and twigs, giving strength
as they waited for insect life and the time to nest.
Everything happens in accordance, as Thoreau found
in his walks around Walden, noting the temperature,
the blooming dates of bladderworts and saxifrages,
the time that buttercups and asters went to seed.
How extravagant, even the simple unfolding of a bud
of leaves this time of year. The robins note it, as they
search for the best branches to hide their young.
How much I want to remain in this one space
of sun filtering through the branches that have not
yet leafed, listening to the trill of redwing blackbirds
as they laud another successful migration. Possum
and raccoon are coming out of the dens, looking
for fresh water where they have found it for generations.
Where will I look for my subsistence? Under what stone
will I find what will keep me alive and thriving?