Comes spring and the gibbous moon, draws washtub-bass plunks and plonks from the night frogs singing in the inky pond. The green hills are gray as shadow, the shadows black as void. The frogs sing in their way; the moon shines in its way; to themselves to each other. By day you can see the lay of the land before all manner of things spring up and make you lose your way among the flowers. Birds loop unhindered among bare branches racing to build nests with the fines that have melted out of the snow, and then wait for leaves to open a cooling canopy over their heads. By day other frogs whine and whine like clotheslines, hours at a time till then they stop- and you wonder Why? though you and your woefully human hearing had been secretly wishing they’d just shut up for a while, so you could better hear the distant birds sing ‘exquisite’ ‘exquisite’. O spring songs of love and praise!