by the twin brook,
apple trees too old to bear fruit
catch my hood
and drop twigs as I pass
some unknown cone of an object--
poking dark green and dried-blood red
through the matted sopping leaves
and snow melt
of mud season.
A red stained hole in the snow,
evidence that the coyote has been by to visit
in the pile of fallen branches, old Christmas trees,
and other detritus of a winter that has lasted
a bit too long.
Apple trees too old to bear fruit,
awaken to spring.