Thaw

holding, still, in that iron ground

and in a moment, march.

light rushing past midwinter, it is lengthening the dawn. it shifts between the shape of the clouds, the cotton eye of their edges unfolding outward into view. a quiet violet meets the darkness, smudging navy from the mid-line upwards towards the brow. someone said that they witnessed the first robin against its brightening hues.

across the form of whiplash and hollow stubble, the subarctic flow is fumbling. notes of a warmer register exhale, onward and out of sight. it will be some time before this side of earth is full and swollen. we are standing silent, cast in the iron earth, watching and waiting and biding time. still, even here, there are slivers of the coming song.

sunlit and stripped, i let the thumb of the silver maple tab a page of the frozen ground. these remnants are the last exhales of slumber before thaw begins her stirring.

she is stirring.

she is stirring.

she is stirring.

i’ve had Bon Iver and the word ‘thaw’ on my mind this week. it must be the weather. this corner of the world has tipped out of the eternal snow-sweep and towards melt. it is early this year and, after a late autumn, seems all the stranger. it was, however, cold. this reprieve could very well be a bonspiel, and it will still be a moment before the green. in any case, i am in no rush. and that, truly, feels like a small joy.

perhaps, wherever you are this month, there will be birdsong.

happy march!