After The Snowmelt

Puddles reflect the sun’s glare,
the rising chorus of songbirds
emerge into a morning in which
pine boughs and maple branches
hang free without the weight of snow.
Along the path: a child’s mitten,
the cellophane of a cigarette pack,
an empty pint of cheap whiskey,
a plastic grocery sack that rolled
like tumbleweed during the gusts
of winter’s biggest storm.
A scarf, abandoned or lost,
the dripping from the eaves 
of a house near the fairgrounds
whose inhabitants are rarely seen.
A fast food catsup packet and a plastic
straw bent by the drinker.
The air fresh with sodden earth
and the whisking of tires
along the boulevard.
Further along the trail:
we shiver at seeing
the frozen corpse of a blue jay
which didn’t survive winter.


Bruce Gunther is a retired journalist and writer who lives in Michigan. He’s a graduate of Central Michigan University. His poems have appeared in The Comstock Review, Arc Magazine, the Dunes Review, Modern Haiku, and others.