Twelve new inches of snow,
burying the crocus, but
I hear purple shadows laughing
beneath the white.
Birds called out a symphony this morning,
chasing the spirals of wind-flung flakes,
and the chickens scraped away with
their bare clawed feet,
clucking with something between impatience
and question marks.
No stopping a feeling of sunshine,
an intimation of running water,
the desire of warm and flowing things.