If I was rain I'd fall gently. 
Birds like me better that way. 
I'd leave plenty of room for sunshine, 
because even I prefer blue to gray. 
If I was rain I'd remember
every nest in every hole and tree, 
and fall to the left just a little, 
because there's a little mother and father in me.

If I was rain I'd fall gently.
Gentle is a good thing to be.   

Sproutings and bloomings, courtings and hatchings, burrowings and nestings, clippings and thinnings, and always the rising of the great green tide. 

Busy is this place called Spring.    

   

My house has memory, and in its day dreamings speaks the soft scents of buttered pancakes and maple syrup, of hickory fires and bread, fresh from the oven.

There was only the moon. A perfect crescent. Tilted upwards. And above it, a single star. Blazing. 

‘Wow,’ the boy said, and the three dogs looked to the sky.

‘It’s my birthday star,’ Pete said, when it was clear that everyone was amazed. 

The big dogs looked at Pete, and then to the boy, who was looking at Pete as well. 

Pete only continued to look upwards. At the star. His birthday star. 

‘Snacks and presents,’ he finally said, and turned and marched back to the house.                



                                                                             

On warm nights when the moon is full, the big dogs stay outside. And when they bark at the things that howl and screech, little Pete and I raise our heads to listen, then move closer to each other and wonder until we fall back to sleep.  

Blue Jays and Red birds fill the bare branches, a curious Spring. 

  

Pete wants me to sew pockets on to his new dog jacket. For provisions.