Spring Recovery

Birds, light as butterflies, circle a lone tree

black etch feather on the side of the hill.


Almost-spring air blows around almost-buds,

when I close my eyes there’s a rhythm in me,

a rock-a bye-baby breathe rhythm.


The wood pigeon pair search for scraps,

one flew with a twig just now,

in time, two white eggs will lie secret.


It is all just beginning –

the land quickens and tree clocks wake.