late march

by underswansea

RCE_4985.smA handsome, but vain, Bluebird admires his colour.

Spring spit in my eye just as I took my cap off. It fills the ruts with mud and laughs when I break through and sink in the knee deep muck. It gets the birds singing, but refuses to show them. Everything is horny. Talk about exclusion. At night, it obscures the stars with rain clouds, denying Orion a proper goodbye. Spring has no respect.

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