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.

4/17/96