santos scribes

earth wakes freckled
in her own wet snow; again

and still the robin, red
refuses to not sing

without winter
how else would we see the birds?

the red-shouldered hawk, the golden eagle
the peregrine falcon who hides

and caws out from her heart;
the barren treetops

today it is the parachuters
who are parachuting

six, maybe seven, stand floating;
scattered feathers in a forgotten sky

the sun is shining, but its cold
like a baptism

i witness
the first leaper land

from a quiet country road
i grip the steering wheel

spring has come now to seventy-fifth street
contrails criss and cross like telephone wires

across a beholden sky;
the promise of an april snow yet to come

in the distance a plane so low flying and small i mistake it for a bird first, swoops then glides

about this poem

an exploration in couplet, enjambment and simile. my muse was a road i drive most days after i drop my son at school. i jotted mental notes over the course of a few weeks, trying to give a glimpse into the paradox or great contradiction that can be late winter & early spring on the front range of the colorado rocky mountains.