Pop Gun Feathers

I see Spring now. tipping green sprouts into grey days, as April showers
and May dips a towheaded Sun above the brisk humidity of a strange tangle
of Seasons… spooning in the dark at midday. 
I see Spring now, lilting in the underbrush; fetching imminent spoils
as fairy rings and bluegrass tango in the corrugated lawns 
of our fathers. 
a wealth of exchange is bilking the dam for all its girth. an ocean of tomorrows
with midges and scissortail cleaving the blue with sharp beaks
and black eyes like a shy Luger
on a hip.