Early Spring

Listening to Townes sing

about growing old

as I drive back north

into the last of winter,

a battlefield strewn

with old snow corpses

in the ditches,

under the black-eyed aspen

and between the stoic pines.

We’re hard on the cusp

of mud season and open water,

if only I could tell the cranes.

Maybe I’ll dig another bed

in the little garden,

open the earth by spadefulls

and uncover things long unseen.

Crows know about early spring,

a time for pecking at whatever remains

from the season before last.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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