In March

I love the cooing of wood-doves making dewdrops tremble in the cedar and the brink of dawn in a robin's breast. I love the drift of snow on the morning side of a hill white as a choirboy's collar and the rush of yellow in willows. I love the sprightly bloom of crocus beneath the rosebush and blades of grass around stones tiny as lashes on a lamb's eyes. I love the swelling of buds on the aspens against the vastness of sky and the tint of red on swamp maples warming me more than the sun with yet a crystal sting in the wind. I love the mist lingering in the pasture in patches ghosts of summer cows and the stone-bells in the brook melting waters ring. I love red-winged blackbirds singing above the husky hum of tractor and plow and upturned earth sweet as dark bread from the oven.

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