The dog roams around the front yard
to water April-greens shooting
out of the ground.

By the storm door, the cat
bathes himself in a sun field.

Two hawks hang glide in gyres
over tulip trees. Chipmunks
hide.

The rust-bellied birds move in,
with chirrupy calls, make home
In a dying oak.

Down the driveway, behind the house
run-off painted in the yard a network
of deltas with sand,

clay, and mica. Worms, over-dried,
blend into the black top.

Last night, a cricket trilled.

I have waited a year,
to be warm outside.

© 2004, Amy Hart.