Three silent geese glide by—I tuck the frost cover under bricks gently.
In the still cool bed my partner’s furnace forearm across my middle.
Family contorts the cattle panel into a high arched trellis.
I kneel at the bed peeling off the thick mulch mat— strawberries in spring.
No asparagus tips just yet—in last year’s stumps already a slug.
Little hair tickles this spring morning—no ticks yet awareness is ready.
Digging post holes through topsoil, then clay, suddenly geese by the hundreds.
Again the robin watches me fling its wet nest half made from the porch. --- I toss another half made nest from the porch pine too close to the door.
The buzzards gently tuck into the shot squirrel— red unfeathered heads.
Prepping the brush pile for chipping—treeward flashing, the fresh flushed rabbit.
In the dark, cool soil, among the tips of thistles the first pea shoot plows.
Dog gambols in green— above, stiff buzzard, kite-like on the wind watching.
Fluffy tissue pile crests by the couch--potted hot chicken bones boiling.