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The storm, departing, leaves trailing clouds— white spume washing blue sky— and cold air. Trees that lately blossomed have turned dark, burdened with new leaves, but the bud-covered dogwoods have held back their full flowering, awaiting a warmer day. No bees buzzed this afternoon, and the few birds abroad were quiet. All the sun's brightness dispelled none of the chill the air bore, and chimneys sent aloft smoke which barely curled, so still was the day. Lawns have grown plush and their green bears the yellow dots of dandelions, but spring has made a brief retreat. As the sun declines, the valley southward is hazed, and there the season lurks where flocks of birds leap from marshes, testing the readiness of the air.

( Sunday Verse )