We awoke from our reverie
To blowing snow in late March.

The birds muttered,
Puffing their feathers against
The cold, blue wind.

For them there would be no breakfast.
Even the corn in the horse droppings
Was frozen beneath this spring shroud,
And the fence proved a slippery perch.
Too fat for the bird claws,
Its vinyl strength allowed no grub to
Bury itself in the poly-fiber warmth anyway.

In the road the birds cocked
Their heads listening as the Santa Fe
And Rio Grande labored up the grade at Echo Junction,
The shrill voice bouncing from the sandstone faces
Like invisible lightening bolts
Causing a cocaine-like mist
To rise from the intoxicating snow.

Tiny sparks from the rails
Pierced the snow along the tracks
Like miniature rapiers heated
In a smithy’s fire, creating stalagmite rivulets
On the freezing rocks.

Patiently all awaited the brass trumpet
To call the Son of Man
From the April clouds.

Principle:  The Son of man will come. All nature testifies of the fact.  Birds know, horses grazing in the pasture know, kittens waiting for scraps at the kitchen door know. Why do we doubt?

Scripture: Revelation 1:7