A February with an April soul. Thrushes  

on breaking branches scream to us an  

ancient song as a breeze with rounded edges  

kisses my cheeks and tells me that  

it worships me. I choose to believe this.  

We spot Black-headed gulls through antique binoculars,  

clinging to dust that bleeds into pores. 

Dogs with hearts no bigger than plums bound past and take 

my breath with them. A sprouting leaf hold a  

caterpillar I'll never meet. World is wide. It must be 

spring.