Spring Duende

by Terri Glass

There is a twittering whistle outside my door
and the soft hum of May rain.
No one in the world is up
but me.
The neighbors are corralled behind
shut doors
covered in down comforters in their plush beds
dreaming of water rising above sea level
or Edward Scissorhands snipping their hedges.

The sky is dusty gray
accentuating the hundred hues of green
speckled on the hillside.
Marilyn Monroe lives in these trees.
The branches bursting through
their winter dresses
with a foliage that even mesmerizes
Bible readers.

On my driveway
a black crow swoops down
harassing a young mourning dove
who hasn't yet earned its pilot's license.
I chastise the crow with a yell,
but a Scrub jay joins in the fun.
These are the bullies of Corte Lenosa,
Nature's vagrants who loiter
the suburban streets-
like the ones who light cigarettes
and stamp them out in your flesh,
who want to see the weak
squirm and die.

Even spring is tricky
among the blooming bougainvillea
and the sleeping butterflies.
Even love longs for its
own death.