Not spring

 

On second thought, I keep forgetting where I am and that the seasons aren't what I grew up with.

 The grove is filled with robins, bluejays, a flicker, a host of little brown I-don't-know-whats, and a couple of crows who look like battleships compared to the others. I don't bother with pictures because my phone/camera isn't up to the distance and, no giraffes in sight.

I'll put out the last bag of feed on my way to the country in a bit.

Dee called this Insta description a poem. I guess. For all I know about poetry.

We swell, break, and still.
Are cursed, given, or stolen.
Sworn on, pine, and leap.
Race and burn, full.
Holding you. Keeping time.