Writer's Group May 2015 by Susan L.

                                              The Sounds of Spring

 The burble, the rush, the roar of ditch and stream and rivers filled.

                            Pebbles Flamenco dance beneath the surface.

Tree lifeblood seeps from blizzard broken limbs drip splats,

          Anointing the forest floor in sweetness.

The silence before a black cloud’s thundering rumbling rage

                                                           An oppression felt heard in heart and bone.

       One-Mississipi-two out loud measuring how far away the lightning struck.

Faster, faster, rat-a-tat clatter hailstone raindrops on a tin roof,

                                      A deafening, desperate shelter from howling green skies.

Birdsong amplified as the last raindrops hiss on the silver black asphalt.

                         Tentative trills, cheep tweets, a lover’s coo and unmelodic rasping,

                                       Fill the void,

                             The vacuum of life on hold and in hiding because of the storm.

Bold as brass wood pecker tap-tapping an obsolete antenna tower still standing.

                  “I am here!” he Morse code messages, “Did you miss me?”

 

The secretive chatter of spent roadside grasses and brittle cattails.

The whispering shush of baby leaves caressed by kind breezes,

                                                         Bitter, Alberta clipper gales just a memory.

                Curtains snap, lace rustles, blinds rattle.

Deep inhalations of freshened air bursting with the fragrance of renewal.

The cat purrs in sunshine patches now extra warm and inviting.

                Honey bees, bumble bees, hover flies and jewel green tiger beetles:

A hunger driven, miniscule cat purr serenades the irrepressible dandelions.

         Dentist drill mosquitoes pester and annoy.

                  The slap then sprits of spray, a fruitless two-fold counter attack.

                  A sneezy snort when a particularly brave soul ventures

                                                        Into the unexplored frontier of Nasal Cavern.

The crackle of back yard fires consumes the fallen,

                     Lava red embers roast the first spit sizzling hot dog of the year.

A muttered curse aimed at stubborn to start machines that grind and choke

                                                                                                                     And choke.

             Rakes rasp, hoes huff, shovels swish.

                                         A squeaky wheelbarrow wheel.

The groan of aching, ill used muscles put to bed,

                            Lullaby-ed to sleep by the delightful chorus

                    Of amphibious peepers and thunking leopard frogs.