The wind is in conspiracy with the new leaves.
Only yesterday these were budless, bony statues
motionless, framing my window box.
Now a dancing pointillism mesmerizes me.
The light fluctuates in proportion to the clouds.
On the trunk a small woodpecker puffs
its downy belly against the scaly bark.
Among the greys of the chilly midday
a blue jay explodes through the frame
its unexpected plumage punctuating the afternoon
with a flash of luminence just to remind me,
the reluctant harbinger is as apparent as
the forsythia suddenly splashed
by the cloud break and the silent spectacle
of the branches conspiring with the wind.