A day spent on the back porch

Spring is truly here.

By myne own watch do I so declare.

A day spent on the back porch secures this truth more accurately than these poor weathermen trying to read the tea leaves to predict things, often incorrectly.

Prophecy is not the equivalent of a best guess.

Yet, I respect their need to speak in ways deterministic.

They have a job; I have the simple luxury of looking into the picturesque.

(At least for another couple of weeks.)

Cottonwood seeds flutter like dandelions wished upon.

The three baby squirrels left the carriage house for the first time; and, explored the oak tree.

I watched the parents build their den drey weeks ago.

The birds sing in ecstatic glee.

Perching, en masse, preening, showing off for potential mates.

Being new here, I do not know their avian names; but, upon reflection, that seems right proper.

Even the insects cannot resist landing on me in joyous greeting.

I blow them off with a gentle breeze from my lungs.

The songs and chitters fill the sky and every bit of the ether between.

The Chinese Tallow tree drops its cotton~like downy seed.

It is not truly that so-called tree; but, being new here, it is the closest descriptive name that I know to call thee.

Upon reflection, that seems rite and proper.

Because to see does not truly require name~calling.

The pitch reaches its peak at four, before mellowing as the sun approaches the horizon’s seam.

Two young boys play in the alleyway. One on a bike chasing the other who is on foot.

They are twins. They swap places frequently.

I could show you well framed pictures; I could make this description more becoming and literarily.

But, who cares when s/he is enjoying the first day of spring.

It is finally warm; and, as I thaw, I understand that I knew not how frozen I had become.