Spring Fever

It’s a wondrous night. 

The moon is full and framed 

by branches pregnant with fat buds. 

A perfect balance of stars and clouds

orange and mauve in the moonrise. 

There’s a warm gusty wind 

rustling and bending the pines 

and it’s so bright 

almost as bright as day 

without all the colors. 

I get the sense 

that everything around me is awake. 

It’s like a swell of movement 

surging from the darkness between the trees. 

No one out there will sleep tonight. 

I hear yowling and growling 

coming from the hedgerow. 

Songbirds are chirping and trilling 

and hopping from branch to branch. 

Woodcock are performing 

noisy mating rituals in the field. 

The spring air carries a mysterious sweetness 

intriguing, almost irresistible. 

The primal part of me inhales deeply 

wishing to follow that damp sweetness 

wherever it leads. 

To slip into the woods and go wild. 

Rage and run

shake off the long cold winter 

in a fevered and frenzied prowl. 

Come home at dawn

leaves and twigs in my hair

panting and muddy

eyes flashing.

The shadows in a cloud 

passing above the moon 

form in perfect puffy letters 

NAY. 

I imagine it’s a message from the heavens 

and try to figure out 

which question in my life 

it might be the answer to. 

The wind breaks the cloud 

into squarish bits

like cracked mud at the bottom of a dried stream. 

Every time I’m about to turn and go home 

I hear a new sound in the woods 

and the breeze rises 

and the pines rustle and bend again 

and the clouds streak and puff 

and new stars twinkle into view. 

I won’t rush it. 

This is a night to be savored.

~Becky Robbins