I stepped outdoors while the sun was warm
to search thin snow if something formed
could help dislodge a bedded, numb
river rock where the blood is warmed.
A robin kept fleeing my slow boot tread,
not far, re-staking each claim of ground
with quick jabs and quizzical cocks of head.
I wondered what livelihood it found.
The drab grass, strawy and rough to touch,
smelled moist, like spring, its patchy green
shiny with thaw in the windy March
day’s clashing tempers of cloud and sun.
“Winter will need to move indoors,”
I laughed aloud, misting chilly air
with cheer that nudged my heart-rock loose.
The scene didn’t notice or seem to care
about inner weathers, cheer or grief
or landscapes they carve in a human breast,
unless in the ruffled annoyance of
a bird hunting grasses for its spring nest.