Spring Brown, the Beginning
Spring brown, a time when birdsscream and play like children,
when dark concrete soil thaws
turns soft, becomes melted brick
mush in the rain sotted
puddle-luscious countryside.
I watch the cold, wet hills
swallow the evening sun
smother the embers of day
in its dark mouth, hills
like uneven teeth grin,
spring's colorless metaphor.
Barn swallows, brown again,
dart, rise, dive, turn, dash
along silver-tinted puddles
with no true color but dirt
streak like stones skipped
over quicksilver on ochre.
The dark water breathes
pale, pearlescent mist ghosts
night colored, clinging to hosts
in the first dun light of
early morning-ever-after of
the beginning of days.
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