The Thaw

Ice splits from the riverbank in articulate tongues, speaking the language of going.

A cardinal tests the wet branch— each feather a small red protest against the grey that won't leave.

Somewhere, buried seeds remember their contract with light. They don't rush. They know what it means to wait in the dark.

Nothing blooms yet. But the air has changed its mind. You can feel it: the earth learning to exhale again.