The sky is a mix of pale and dusky blues, and a night chorus of frog cry begins.  The wind blows through the trees.

Earlier, the snow fell in clumps, and flew, scatterbusrt, carried by the wind.

The rain was steady, a humming drizzle.

It feels like summer, or it did.

There goes a goose, just one, in the field that became a lake, and that shows no sign of receding.

It calls again, then emits throaty honks, a plaintive sound in this twilight.

The sun, when it came out at last, was golden but momentarily.

There, the goose calls is stronger, but aching.

Spring comes and goes, unsettled, not sure, not sure at all.