No rain to wet the spring

No rain to wet the spring

First the thrushes with cock-crow and dog-bark, then wood pigeons wooing and the churn of tractors. Dead leaves rattle on their hanging trees, and the wind turns to the north, skims milky cloud across the sun, and a chill crawls from the yellow grass, waiting for the blackbirds’ lament for the day’s ending.

Muscari haze banks with blue
but the banks are dry—orange
clay crumbles. Dust.