This last March night, I stand
beneath a black ceiling of clouds
as they break and flow
across the sky, allowing a peek
at the moon and she upon me.
They’re heavenly echoes
of the river ice, once a mass
of winter rigidity, now cracking
and whispering downstream
certain secrets kept for too long.
New whispers, a quietly
inform my reverie. They approach
on the south wind, as new cloud-cracks
reveal the silhouetted band
marching northward across the sky.
I shiver, not so much
from the cold, but because
this flapping pennant affirms
the river’s rumor of spring.
New 100-word drabble shared with dVerse gang, who are looking for poems of animals as portents of good or bad news. To me, there’s little better than the news that after this long rough Winter, Spring–real, warm, green-up Spring–is near.