Someone is stirring up the pot.
Everything is at full trot.

What is in the air.
That takes the bear out of his lair.

That sends the chickadee all a twitter.
And Robins scratching in the leaf litter.

The blush is on the maple rose.
After six months in repose.

The Raven has changed his song.
The icy grip is not as strong.

The frost has retreated to the night.
No more an advancing carpet of white.

Who knew the Raven had such a voice.
To orchestrate all nature's choices.

If that was in my repertoire.
I would waste it in my car.