"April comes to us, with her showers sweet. I wake to the cries...

"April comes to us, with her showers sweet. I wake to the cries of little birds before the light comes across the heath. They wait all night with open eyes. Now, with the rain at dawn, their voices make melody." I imagine my mother calling to me, her words echoing across the years. Every night, I slip into the empty winter land of memory."

— Sinful Folk, by Ned Hayes