Down in the desert valleys, spring is almost done.
The last white and purple blooms are falling to leaves.
The hummingbirds are passing on their way back north.
Here in the ponderosas, soft snow is falling.
A western mountain bluebird flares the only bloom.
The rest is cotton and grey, muddy browns and green.
The first full night without ice hasn’t happened yet.
The deer are only starting to crop the new grass.
A black and orange gate bars the road to the lake.
From time to time, pick-up trucks come nose at the gate
Then roar back down the mountain. Too late for skiing
And snowmobiling, too soon for fishing high streams.
We can wait. We like this snow with its palm-sized flakes
That make the tiniest hiss as they land and break,
Vanishing in evergreens and dirt. We can wait.
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