The Spring water, ice-like over my toes,
bubbles up, virgin and clear.
Mossy green felt softening the limestone,
ties the rocks back
into the tapestry of ivy, lilac and nettle.
Water filled air eddys whirl and churn
across my forehead, and arms, and
drip cool currents down my open shirt.
Over there,
that cautious muskrat sniffs and skirts
Bobby's metal trap,
almost hidden,
in the thick, tasty, watercress.
Paddle, paddle, dive.
Tiny tail last to go. A ripple.
Jenny Wren sounds the alarm.
Chatter, chatter, zip, hop, and twitter,
"Two-legged here! Right here!
Look out! He's here!
Go away! Go away! Go away!"
Oh, Jenny, for once
let the brown-headed owl be my herald!
You do me no honor, you little brat!
Am I a thief?
If all I steal is what my senses can hold?
You shall not be less because
of such a short audience with me,
you angry ratcheting thimble of feathers.
Oh, too close!
A creepy, slithering, dry-skinned
reptile, the one on its sliding belly,
makes the taller grasses shiver,
and again it is quiet.
Gurgle, gurgle.
The quiet of the Spring.
I wait. The Spring gurgles.
(Spring 01 - Tom C.)
