weekday morning
gulls gather
round the ice-fishing hole

first warm day
the boys show off
a handful of grubs

no room for doubt
the swallow’s
red throat

snowdrops
on the grave
a yew’s shadow

flickering candles
a wren chirps
between hymns

signs of spring
the expiration date
on fat-free milk

early spring
the teenager guns
his engine

spring wind
a man with wooden hands
unfolds a paper

spring haze —
a whiff of spruce
from the avalanche debris

sowing lupine
in the rain . . .
his pleasure voice