by James Owens

Snowmen slump into March grass.
The gutter blots their slushy sobs.

Jays exchange rough talk
at the homemade feeder, perch on
snowmen’s bald pates,
blink back the glare.
They bask in the vernal stir
that mists the trees with green,
that undermines the snowmen’s bottoms.

Thieves that glut on others’ feed
have pestered civil juncos into the weather.
Jays profit from what builder’s wit
suggested nailing boards together ---

the same wit that lifts snow to form
against its failure in the sun.
Ranks of snowmen cringe and run.
The cynic jays dispute an early worm.

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