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
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.