A March Wind Blows

A March wind blows

and the shadows fall.

In the hard sunlight

singing branches call.

Last of the winter snow,

dirt brown upon the ground,

looks somehow out of place,

exposed to long days now found.

Birds in the trees seek shelter,

not beating to an unseen tide,

or soar high above the gusts

with feathered sails spread wide.

And I behind my window,

reflected in a pane of glass,

bask in the warm bright rays

and listen to the wind's echo pass.