The chickadee does his cling and swing around

the cones of timely opening bracts, the nuthatch

his deliberate descent down the chunky barked pine,

the arrogant jay loudly struts and flits about,

as in a panic, as if to say, “Something is coming,

something is coming!” But, that’s just his way.

Three days of rain washed heated, thicken air

to leave a cooled exhalation; an air thinner,

more amiable than summers overly sweet cordial.

A cathartic breeze rippled leaves, still green,

exciting them with anticipation of float flight,

of modeling the new season’s gaudy plumage,

of wind scurries that will tumble and rasp them

across their kin scrapping cellulose flesh away

to dry fragility…..each to its veined identity.