Spring Mood

It’s a drippy, droopy sort of day —
Gray clouds, blue-bellied, drifting low
Across the close-cropped pasture,
Clouds weeping at whiles
In scattered tears: no great tragedy,
Only a fretful melancholy
Of spring gray.

It’s the sort of weather
(Spring after spring,
Rain after rain)
In which horses delight to roll;
Their coats already damp,
Their forelocks wet and curled
Above large, kindly eyes,
Their nostrils wide
To sniff the many scents
Carried by the damp across
The beckoning mud.

In the shed is a nest
Made with a long trail of hay stems
Dangling down and moving slowly
On the wet air.
Below it on the ground lie
The dainty remnants of spring’s loves:
One whole egg — sad sight —
And one successfully
And very neatly split in two.
I shall ask Uncle Google
What sort of bird lays eggs
A lovely blue with many brown speckles?
The air is full of birds
Even on gray days.
The rain tumbles down again,
And the bellies of the clouds
Drift along the beckoning mud.
The horses snort and whirl
And stop to crop the grass.
And spring becomes evening.

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