April sunlight augers into snow
plates of ice shift, then crack.
Above the pines a racket of hawks
and jays trumpets this chink
between winter and spring,
while far downstream, snowmelt creeps
blackening chunks of andesite
along the bed.
A frog lies dormant in the mud
and I listen for the play of droplets against the rock.
The frog twitches.
Legs extend. It drifts, sleek and green under the thinning film of ice,
deaf to the song of the current,
numb to the bliss of its pull.