Brown grasses laid flat
by the still departing snow
heavy silence of gray
pierced only by voices of birds

Ravens & sandhills &
a single chickadee from somewhere
in the mystery of a cottonwood

From one of its fallen limbs
I watch a drift boat ease past,
bundled man in the bow
plying the near shore for trout

that might not still exist –
if not this spring, then one
sometime soon

I allow the cold to creep
like a hunting heron deep
into my bones – return to the car
hoping this pen still has some ink

Ink, like fish & birds,
like another spring,
is a growing uncertainty

~Marc Beaudin, 4/14/2023