modus operandi

emembering spring. Despite appearances it comes. Again in the middle of rain, here it pads on paths through snowbanks, dancing discourteous wind. A robin's tweet the calling card of a sneak. Puddles and worms, mud and everything else below knees first. Then ravels sleeping grass, up stale trunks to branches and twigs. Skyward! It comes, it comes. It always comes. But every time a miracle. It comes.