To the Editor:
A male cardinal sings in the forsythia.
Whistle, whistle, tweet, thrum times ten.
I search for him through the rain-streaked window.
He sits tall and fiery in the yellow blossoms.
I am fully awake with his persistent serenade.
The day is gray, clouds dull and indistinct smeared across the northern dawn.
Wind rocks the twin birches and intermittent white caps fleck the sea beyond.
Red buds cluster on the maples and the one-hundred-foot spruce stands tall for another spring,
towering above the hardwoods.
I counted 92 daffodils in the front yard yesterday.
They are brilliant.
I bring in the dozen or so that the heavy rain beat to the ground and grab the cobalt vase to hold them.
Joy at close range on the kitchen table!