It Begins

It begins —

This thing call Spring —

With sunshine and birdsong

Slowly infused into everything.

It begins with

Deep brown rivers gauged in viscous dirt roads,

As the frozen ground thaws and overflows.

I’ve never really loved the mud —

Trudging through the umber sludge,

But it’s a sign that something better’s on its way.

It isn’t here quite yet, 

This thing called Spring

But I heard the birds today and, well, that’s something.

A beginning.